Delayed Flights, Disappearing Friends & Midnight McMysteries — Our Wild Arrival in San Francisco

Jul 30

10 min read

Ah, San Francisco — the City by the Bay, home of sourdough bread, sea lions, and apparently, travel chaos with a side of mystery meat nuggets.

Our adventure began promptly at 3:30 p.m., when we bravely left our home in pursuit of the American dream: a 5:53 p.m. Frontier Airlines flight from San Diego to San Francisco. Terminal 1 was buzzing with that "we might get there tonight, we might not" kind of energy. And guess what? We did not.

Frontier Airlines, bless their delayed little hearts, served up delay after delay like it was a tasting menu at a fancy restaurant. First 30 minutes, then 45 more, then 60... by the time we actually boarded, our original 5:53 p.m. departure had turned into a solid after-10:00 p.m. "maybe" situation.

To their credit, Frontier offered food vouchers — but only if you were paying attention like it was a secret mission. One lady in a camel-colored Isley Brothers hoodie and matching bucket hat missed the memo. She stood looking confused and hungry, and we all learned a valuable lesson: Fashion doesn’t equal fast food.

Anyway, we finally boarded. Spirits were cautiously optimistic until... THUMP. Not a gentle thump. A "we just ran over something — or someone" kind of thump. We exchanged that slow side-eye you give when you know something's about to go down. The pilot comes on the PA and says, "We’ll be pulling back to the gate for just a moment." A moment, he says.

Cut to a police car pulling up to the tarmac. The door opens, and a heavy-set Frontier employee walks in like it’s an episode of Cops: Runway Edition. Who do they escort off the plane? You guessed it: Camel Hoodie Bucket Hat Lady. We don’t know what she did, but based on her dramatic exit, she’s definitely the main character in her own Netflix special.

Fast forward to 12:30 a.m., we finally touch down in SFO — exhausted, hungry, and confused about whether that thump was ever truly explained.

We had smartly called ahead to Sixt rental cars to let them know we’d be late. “No problem,” they said. “Just get here before 1:00 a.m.” The second those wheels hit the ground, the wife and I channeled our inner O.J. Simpson (the airport running years, not the courtroom ones) and sprinted like we were in a Nike commercial — only to find out we had to take the AirTrain to the rental lot. Classic.

We told our traveling partners to meet us at the counter once they got off the plane. We get on the AirTrain, and poof! They’re already inside. Like magic. I’m talking David Copperfield meets TSA clearance. We never saw them pass us. Just… there.

Panting and praying, we reach the Sixt counter at 12:59, only for the friendly agent to say, “Oh we don’t close ‘til 1:30.” Oh. Okay. Cool. So all that sprinting? Completely unnecessary. At least now we know what cardiac distress feels like in an airport.

We finally pull into Union Square at 2:00 a.m., eyes glazed, dreams crushed, and decide to park in a garage that only charges $20 from 6 p.m. to 9 a.m. — a unicorn in San Francisco terms.

As we leave the garage, my wife hits me with, “I’m hungry.” Of course you are. We round the corner and spot what appears to be a late-night McDonald’s with a suspiciously long line. But wait — it’s not a traditional McD’s. No, no. This one’s serving food bank teller style. You scan a barcode, order on your phone, and a mysterious lady appears behind a thick-glass window like a fast-food genie.

I have no idea what we ate. It may have been chicken. It may have been hope in fried form. All I know is that at 2:15 a.m., in the heart of San Francisco, with food in hand and mystery still in the air — we finally felt like our trip had begun.

Welcome to San Francisco, baby. We made it. Just… barely.

We finally checked into our hotel, the iconic Westin St. Francis on Union Square. The last time we had visited San Francisco was toward the end of the COVID pandemic, and back then the city felt like a ghost town — boarded-up shops, empty streets, and a vibe that screamed “post-apocalyptic movie set.” This time, we were blown away. Union Square was buzzing with life, and we quickly realized just how affluent the neighborhood really is. Any high-end store you could imagine was just a short walk from the hotel — even the sleek YSL boutique practically beckoned us from across the street.

As we stepped into the hotel lobby, McDonald’s bags in hand like the true late-night adventurers we were, it felt as if we’d walked straight into a fairytale. The lobby was decked out with gorgeous cherry blossom trees and roses artfully placed everywhere. It was one of those “is this real life?” moments, and for a second, you could almost believe you were part of some whimsical storybook scene.

Our room was perched high on the 27th floor, offering a stunning view of the glowing city below. We stood by the window, taking in the sparkling lights of the streets, before collapsing onto the bed. One minute later — lights out.

We woke up the next morning feeling like new people—probably because we actually got sleep and not just survival-mode naps. Breakfast was at The Club, located just off the Westin’s lobby. It was the perfect setting to shake off the travel chaos and regroup with our crew… including my “little sister from another mister (and momma for that matter).”

Bellies full, energy up, and moods restored, we set off toward one of our all-time favorite San Francisco restaurants: Scoma’s.

If you don’t know Scoma’s, let me bless your foodie soul. It’s a legendary seafood institution nestled right on Fisherman’s Wharf at 1965 Al Scoma Way (yep, it has its own street). Family owned and operated since 1965; it started as a tiny six-seat stand serving local fishermen and has since grown into a 350-seat waterfront seafood palace. Think: “dock-to-dish” magic — seafood literally comes off the boats and straight into the kitchen.

Not only is Scoma’s ridiculously fresh, but it’s also part of the Monterey Bay Aquarium’s Seafood Watch program. That means they’re all about sustainability and responsible sourcing. So, you won’t find overfished items like tuna or swordfish on the menu — and your conscience can feel as satisfied as your stomach.

Now let’s talk about the food. The world-famous clam chowder is like a warm hug from Poseidon himself. The Dungeness crab

is the reason bibs were invented. And the Lazy Man’s Cioppino? Oh, bless it. It's like seafood heaven in a tomato-based broth — rich, flavorful, and best of all, they’ve already shelled the crab for you. That’s right, no crab cracker gymnastics required.

Other hits include the shellfish sauté, the mixed seafood grill, and perfectly cooked local fish like halibut or petrale sole. If you’re into pasta (and who isn’t?), don’t sleep on the shrimp and scallops alla Gannon.

Even the San Francisco Chronicle gave the cioppino a nod for its depth of flavor and balance — lighter on crab than some versions, but still among the best in the city. And let’s be honest, if a bowl of seafood stew can get you in the paper in this town, it’s doing something right.

We left Scoma’s full, happy, and already plotting how we could squeeze in one more visit before heading to Santa Rosa to see our friends the “Goldens”, the whole reason for our trip to San Francisco.

When in San Francisco, eat like a wharf king.

It was one of those picture-perfect San Francisco days — the kind that makes you forget the city is usually flirting with fog and wind. The sun was out, the breeze was mild, and you could actually see The Rock — no, not Dwayne Johnson, but Alcatraz — standing proudly in the bay like the world's most scenic former prison.

After our feast at Scoma’s, one of our crew — a burly gentleman with a beard so thick it deserved its own zip code and a Romanian accent that made everything sound intense — had ordered the Lazy Man’s Cioppino. And let’s just say, he didn’t choose the Lazy Man’s life — the Lazy Man’s life chose him. The moment he finished the last spoonful, his body went into full food coma mode. His eyes got heavy, his speech slowed, and I’m pretty sure he forgot what year it was.

As we left the restaurant and hopped in the car, I was living my best San Francisco moment, cruising through the streets like I was starring in a 1970s detective show with Karl Malden and Michael Douglas riding shotgun. The hills, the turns, the charm — I was vibing.

I thought I’d treat our guests to a few of the city’s iconic sights. “Hey, want to stop and check out Lombard Street? It’s the crookedest street in the world!” I offered enthusiastically, ready to channel my inner tour guide.

“Nope,” came the response, flat and final.

Not to be deterred, I pivoted. “What about riding the Powell Street cable car? It goes right past the hotel. Classic San Francisco!” I smiled, trying to generate some spark of interest.

Silence.

“Ghirardelli Square?” I asked. “Chocolate shop? Historic landmark? Giant ice cream sundaes?”

Still nothing.

And that’s when I felt it — the look. You know, the one your wife gives you that’s a mix of love, exhaustion, and please stop talking. She leaned in and said gently but firmly, “Don’t you get it? All he wants to do is go back to the hotel.”

I looked in the rearview mirror. There sat our burly Romanian friend, slumped in the seat like a tranquilized bear, eyes barely open, dreaming of hotel pillows and maybe a second cioppino.

Message received. Tour over. Hotel it is.

After dropping off our bearded, cioppino-comatose companion at the hotel — still mumbling something about needing a nap and a Netflix account — we knew the clock was ticking. We had a dinner date with Mr. and Mrs. Golden, and there was no way we were going to be late. The reservation was for 6:00 p.m. at Valette in Healdsburg, so we hit the road early with just enough wiggle room to explore a little bit of Santa Rosa before our culinary evening began.

First stop: The Charles M. Schulz Museum. If you’ve never been, it’s like stepping into a world where your childhood lives on in permanent ink. We wandered through the exhibits admiring the Peanuts gang — Charlie Brown, Snoopy, Linus, and of course, Lucy. Right next door was the skating rink, where two hockey teams were going at it like it was Game 7 of the Stanley Cup. Nothing like a little ice brawl to balance out the wholesome cartoon energy.

And yes, they have the booth where Lucy offers psychiatric help for a nickel. Let’s just say we dropped a few coins in that tin can — mostly for me, because, well... I do drive my wife crazy. Luckily, she’s a patient woman with a good sense of humor and a wallet full of nickels.

We eventually made our way to the beautiful home of Mr. and Mrs. Golden in Santa Rosa. Now, their real names aren’t Golden — but that’s what I call them. Why? Because wherever they go, whoever they’re with, they radiate this golden hue of warmth, kindness, and joy. Not quite the Midas touch (thankfully, because hugs would be awkward), but close.

Upon arrival, Mr. Golden greeted me with a gift — three cans of sardines from Portugal, brought back from their Viking cruise. And let me tell you, when a friend gives you imported tinned fish with a smile, that’s love. Or maybe a dare.

After some laughter and storytelling, we all piled into the car and headed to Valette, a gem of a restaurant nestled in downtown Healdsburg. The dream of brothers Dustin Valette and Aaron Garzini, Valette is everything Sonoma County cuisine is supposed to be: honest, seasonal, sophisticated without being stuffy, and passionately local.

Dinner Highlights:

Appetizers

Charcuterie & Local Cheeses
Day Boat Scallops en Croute (aka buttery, flaky seafood heaven)

Entrees

Pan-Seared Alaskan Halibut (two of us couldn’t resist — and we didn’t regret it)
Bone-In Duroc Pork Loin (a pork chop so good it made eye contact with my soul)

Wine

Valette Pinot Noir — smooth, bright, and exactly what you want in a Sonoma Pinot.

Dessert

We strolled down to Noble Folk Ice Cream and Pie Bar for a sweet ending — a charming spot where dessert dreams come true.

The meal? Top notch.

The wine? Impeccable.

The company? Nothing short of — wait for it — “GOLDEN.”

But then… the cherry on top of an already unforgettable night: Guy Fieri walks into the restaurant and sits right behind us. Yes, THE Mayor of Flavortown himself.

My wife, a Food Network superfan, immediately entered what I can only describe as “internal fangirl crisis mode.” She started twitching like she was about to levitate. I swear I heard the intro to Diners, Drive-Ins and Dives play softly in the background.

She really wanted to take a photo, but we noticed his wife looked slightly... unimpressed with the attention Guy was getting from waiters, staff, and even the owners. So we made the grown-up decision to not turn dinner into a red carpet moment and let them enjoy their evening in peace.

Though, if we’re being honest — we absolutely stared just a little too long. Because hey, when you end your night with gourmet halibut and a Guy Fieri sighting, you’ve officially arrived in Flavortown, California.

We said our goodbyes to the Goldens in the parking lot, hugs all around and a little part of us wishing we could hit pause and spend just a few more hours together. But alas, reality called — loudly — reminding us that we had to make the trek back across the Golden Gate Bridge and catch a 7:30 a.m. flight the next morning.

What we didn’t realize (because clearly we don't read local event calendars) was that the San Francisco Marathon was also scheduled for the next morning. Yep. A full-blown, street-shutting, traffic-jamming marathon — set to begin right around the time we needed to head to the airport.

So we got home, grabbed what can only be described as a power nap (you know, that weird 90-minute dreamless sleep where you wake up not knowing who you are), laced up our metaphorical running shoes, and prepared to Marathon our Kisters to SFO by 5:00 a.m. — before we found ourselves trapped behind barricades and runners in banana costumes.

We made it, barely, with adrenaline and bad coffee doing most of the heavy lifting. Exhausted but grateful, we boarded our flight home with full hearts, happy stomachs, and the distinct feeling that San Francisco had done its thing once again — dazzling us with charm, chaos, and just the right amount of weird.

It was a short but wonderful weekend in one of my all-time favorite cities, filled with moments that won’t fade anytime soon.