I made it to San Francisco. Wake up at 4.30am; drive to the airport; a delayed flight; a short layover in snowy, grey Germany; 11 hours in a shitty, cheap plane seat with crap food and terrible movies (made bareable by two very good books and some good music); a landing which I thought was going to be in the bay; a BART ride made interesting by a weird trampish guy with gangsta hair; lots of rain; the smallest hotel room ever seen; a shower shared between 20 (not simultaneously); something called the MUNI; a few wrong turns; and finally, sweetly, wonderfully, I arrive at the Toronado.
The Toronado: I love it. I'm here now. Grungy, dark, beer memorabilia everywhere, a dizzying number of pumps, a board full of beer, cool tattooed barmen, rock music. I choose Pliny the Elder, of course. It's incredible. Racer 5 next. Incredible too. This is the beer I was drinking before and after I won the award which paid for this trip. It's a special beer to me because of that. Right now it tastes perfect. Absolutely perfect.
I've been awake for 24 hours but fuck it, I don't care. I'm drinking great beer in an awesome bar. So begins my week in San Francisco.
(By the way, expect swearing, excessive use of exclamation marks, bad or non-existent grammer, woeful spelling and general silliness from these gonzo posts, most of which will be in a bar when I'm half-pissed)