The never-ending story of how a simple boy from the outskirts of London came to reside in Northern California is sure to disappoint those among you who are interested in a bawdy old tale of jolly ribaldry. No, I’m afraid I’m far too repressed an Englishman to have embarked on too dynamic an adventure. To be sure, the plane ride from Heathrow to SFO was the closest I came to a proper adventure and that only required me withstanding four hours of excruciating turbulence.

In time with the screech of the landing gear against the runway, I was compelled to suddenly empty the contents of my stomach on the kind gentleman seated to my left. It was horribly embarrassing, but when all was said and done, an incredible relief. After four hours of constant, horrendous up-and-down turbulence, I would defy anyone with an unstable and overly-sensitive inner ear to not purge.

Disheveled and reeking of bile, I managed to shuffle my way clear of the plane, through an uninterested customs check, and then onto a metro car. It was as if I had awoken to the swirling, lurching hum of the Bay Area Rapid Transit system. Yes the acronym is BART, but I refused to call it by such a familiar name. Metro it was in Paris, metro it would be in the greater San Francisco area.

I stumbled from the metro and gazed about dumbfounded. Once I had made my way into a number of the San Francisco International airport hotels about me, I came to understand I was not in the City proper, but a separate city, known as South San Francisco, located approximately 15 minutes south of the tip of the peninsula. Having finally found a clerk would would accept my British pounds for payment, I made a beeline for my room and the shower therein.

Freshly showered and dressed, I was ever-quick to spread open a complimentary map of the Bay Area. I surveyed the area and was delighted to see how conveniently close everything was. Of course, I had neglected to cross-reference the scale on the map and I had underestimated the density and relative difficulty of travel. Making one’s way from point A on the peninsula to point B across the Bay, in Oakland or Berkeley, only takes the briefest of 30 minutes. But wading through the throngs of people in between could take up to an hour, even two.

Take cheer, any San Francisco International Airport hotel you choose to stay in will accommodate you accordingly. Just be aware that you are not, as it happens, in San Francisco itself, but its sister city to the south.