“There was nowhere to go but everywhere, so just keep on rolling under the stars.”

Jack Kerouac, On the Road

SAN FRANCISCO has gripped my imagination for years, whether through the cinematic chill of Vertigo, Bullitt, Dirty Harry and Escape from Alcatraz, or as the home of the Beat Generation and the counterculture that later flowered in Haight-Ashbury. So finally arriving in the city by the bay feels long overdue.

My time here doesn’t disappoint.

The prelude to entering the city from my humble base in gritty Oakland, I am entertained by a fabulous performer on the Bay Area Rapid Transit called King Magic. His energetic tricks with hats, mixed with acrobatic Spider-Man-like skills that saw his exuberance charm the entire carriage, saw me emerge with a smile at Embarcadero Station. 

The interchange is situated at the edge of the financial district and the iconic 1898 Ferry Terminal. As well as a still-flourishing hub for ferries launching to various sites across the bay, it is now a vibrant site packed with food outlets and a raft of street food stalls on the day I visit, which also happens to be Juneteenth.

As I head up the escalator wondering just what my first experience of San Francisco will be like, I enter blinking into the bright sunshine only to find a mile-long parade marking this joyful and important public holiday.

The holiday marks the day in 1865 when enslaved African Americans in Texas were finally informed they were free. It became a federal holiday in 2021.

“We must move forward, but also, it is important we must also honour our heritage, our history, and the blood that was spilt,” a man tells me, after I ask what Juneteenth means to him as the vivid procession rolls by. “Freedom then, freedom now,” he adds. A banner on a passing float full of frolicking children reads: “Empower.”

The parade is intoxicating, as a succession of floats sidle by, from spirited troops of youngsters marching in unison, to slow-moving vehicles with signs that read: “Black Minds Matter.” MCs toast joyously over sound systems blasting riffs on Public Enemy bass lines, while decorated cable cars proclaim: “Happy Juneteenth: Freedom Day.”

A man with gold teeth and an even brighter smile asks me: “You from London?” after seeing my Arsenal top. I say yes. “Champions man,” he says with a smile and hands me a selection of Juneteenth goodies, including a wristband which I am still wearing with pride, along with a bookmark, pen and small Juneteenth banner.

Later, in North Beach, over a beer in one of Kerouac’s old haunts, I talk to Larry, who has lived in the city for years. Watching the Juneteenth mood carry into the evening, he shrugs at the wider political noise. “How angry do you have to be to refuse to enjoy a public holiday?” he says. In a city long shaped by protest, counterculture and political tension, the sense of history never feels far away.

Amid the incessant flood of dictatorial executive orders that reduce freedoms ever more, sealed with an idiot’s marker pen, it was instructive to note that while the astonishingly divisive Trump also ended free admission to national parks on Juneteenth, California’s Democratic Governor Gavin Newsom announced special free pass to California’s state historic parks in honour of Juneteenth and the United States’ forthcoming 250th anniversary. The move in contrast to Trump funding his latest crassly vainglorious vanity project at the White House, while relentlessly attempting to whitewash the past. 

Taking in the brilliant Juneteenth Parade, a tumult of activity flanked by palm trees, skyscrapers and the stunning view of the bay, I think I hear people shouting the word “Arsenal.” I think I’m going mad, until I turn around and see a wonderful family shouting it to me because of my blue Gunners away shirt. I head over to a group of smiles. “We are a family of big Arsenal fans,” the mum tells me proudly. Her young daughter asks me who my favourite player is. Bukayo Saka I say. “Me too,” the girl replies with a big grin.

I decide to go for a walk along the waterfront that fringes all manner of piers. I end up at Pier 39, framed by the city’s Ferris wheel situated at the leisure strip Fisherman’s Wharf. Pier 39 is just another reason why I’ve always wanted to visit San Francisco. Why? The sea lion colony.

The show never stops here at Pier 39 after the incredible sea lions were given squatters’ rights over prime dock space, when out of the blue they first decided to appropriate one of San Francisco’s piers back in 1990, and have stayed ever since. I could watch them forever. 

On a hot afternoon I continued walking, heading through the bustling Fisherman’s Wharf area. The former traditional fishing port declined as the local industry diminished in the 1960s and 1970s, prior to the area being given a new lease of life through the tourist industry. 

Further along I jump on the city’s rattling cable cars for a quick ride, before I continue in my quest to see the Golden Gate Bridge. While walking through the family-friendly Crissy Field as people of all ages jog, skate, bike or walk in the sunshine. 

Suddenly it was a case of “be still my beating heart,” at my first sighting of the Golden Gate, the world’s most famous bridge and something I’ve always wanted to see in person.

I am lucky the weather is so good, as the bridge and its majestic towers glow a glorious orange in the setting sunshine after a day of great adventure. 

See the next part of Layth’s World Cup diary from California as he explores the Haight-Ashbury area, gets another tattoo, visits the notorious Alcatraz, and much more