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I don't help myself by missing my turn off the I-80. But I pull over, consult a map, and am soon where I need to be. As I turn left I see my destination, but there is no parking apparent, so I turn back into the one way system, this time with parking at the top of my agenda. As I turn left again I see the car park, but I'm in the left hand lane of a four lane street, and the car park is to the right. So I go around again, ever inching right, until this time I am able to turn into the car park. The attendant informs me that they are full, and that I will have to turn the car round and leave. The space allowed is approximately the size of a coffee table, so I execute a perfect 23 point turn, at which point the attendant informs me that he now has a space down in the depths. He takes my fee, and I disappear towards Hades. Each space I discover contains a more gruesome threat as to what will happen to my car if I park there until, hidden away in a dank corner, there appears my space.
Having parked, I head out into a surprisingly cool city – that's cool as in temperature, not as in fashion - and walk the two blocks to the Moscone Centre, arriving at precisely 11.59. See, I told you I had allowed plenty of time.
The Fan Fest is an amazing medley of baseball related activities, some of them with queues which put Alton Towers to shame. There is everything from the historical, displays on loan from the Hall of Fame and the Negro Leagues Museum, to the hysterical. You can stand behind a cardboard, decapitated figure of Barry Bonds, placing your head where his should be, and be photographed hitting your record breaking home run; or stand in a gap in the team line up, and be photographed as a member of the San Francisco Giants; or stick your head on top of an outfielder leaping high to rob some poor hitter of a home run. It's a bit like the fat lady and scrawny man figures at Blackpool, except that people take this a little more seriously, and form some fairly long queues.
There are hitting cages, fielding practices, and chances for you to race against your dad while you both try to steal home. Then there are the collectables, which are a huge business in baseball; figurines, bobble head dolls, signed balls and baseball cards. And one stall, which has something like a ninety minute queue, features a couple of retired players of renown, signing whatever people put in front of them.
The thing I was most pleased to see was an acknowledgement of the women's league which appeared during World War II, and on the second occasion I passed this stall, there were a number of veterans from this league signing baseballs for yet another significant queue.
Sated of this paraphernalia, I retrieve my car, and find my hotel. Compared with the budget motels I am used to, this is significantly more basic, bereft of even minor luxuries like soap and plastic cups. And the car parking which I was led to believe was arranged by the hotel, is in fact arranged by me and the public car park down the street, at a cost which makes me believe it is more expensive to house my car than myself. I wonder if my car will be given a plastic cup.
I am hardly enamoured of my return to city life but, by the time I have sorted the car, found a nearby Starbucks, and got my internet working, I feel ready to face the week ahead. So, after renewing my contacts with the outside world, I set out in search of dinner.
The place I am seeking is just a few minutes walk – Lefty O'Doul's, the best deal on the square; Union Square, that is. This is a dark, wooden place, named after a local character with baseball connections. The walls are covered with local memorabilia, and the TVs are showing current games. The bar is lined with a vast selection of draught beers, but on the other side of the room is what can only be described as a cafeteria. You pick up your tray, choose from a fairly limited menu, one meat, two sides, one salad, bread, find a seat and off you go. The meat is carved from vast joints, and can in no way be described as rare. It's comfort food, pure and simple – just the stuff for a poor lad experiencing a forty degree drop in temperature over the last twenty-four hours.
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