Oh look at all the lovely hostels

I arrived after an epic journey which begun in Cork and took in Dublin, Chicago, Minneapolis and the grave. Well to be fair I managed to avoid the grave but only just.  Paul Mescal was already at one with the tortoise when I got there.  I was not.  I lasted I believe 2 nights before I was kicked out for having extra peeps in the room.  Nothing sordid or exciting, your honour, merely a cost saving exercise.  I was somewhat dollar shy straight from the off. 

My saviour. I was somewhat less than half a man, homeless and afraid, when fort mason appeared, rising majestically from beneath the bay, destroying BART in the process.  I had spent my day juggling covering vast tracts of the city with making innumerable calls on phones which clearly resented being used; all but resigned to spending a night on the mean streets, I found myself in this idyllic setting.  Half heartedly approaching the check in desk, broken as I was by rejections, I discovered to my delight that I was welcome in this mystical place. Smiles. 

I will say few words of the pig as yet, expect to cite the lethal stairwell; I am to this day baffled that I did not tumble down the near vertical, six inch wide steps to my fitting demise.