Alcatraz and America's Answer To Blackpool...

I realised this morning that I’d never actually seen a prison before, meaning that what I was expecting from Alcatraz was basically directly plagiarised from The Shawshank Redemption. And do you know what – because I’m not sure whether or not this is surprising – that was pretty much bang on. I was having Shawshank flashbacks throughout the (remarkably good) audio tour. One thing that did surprise me was the size of Alcatraz – it’s really quite tiny, particularly considering I was picturing something more like the Isle of Wight...

But it isn’t the physical aspects of Alcatraz that make it fascinating – it’s the stories. In the 48 years it was used as a prison, there were 36 escape attempts, and of them, only 5 prisoners remain unaccounted for (which could just as easily mean fish food as free). And what cracking stories they make. There was one poor sod who escaped his cell, successfully swam the 1 ¼ miles to San Francisco – by which time he was so cold he couldn’t actually climb out of the water – only to be dobbed in by a bunch of kids who saw him struggling in the water, tried to help and called the police. Oops.

But the only successful escape attempt took place in June 1962, and was immortalised by Clint Eastwood in the subtly named ‘Escape From Alcatraz’. Basically, three blokes made fake heads to cover their absence in bed and dug out their air-vents with spoons. Yes, that’s right, spoons. Now that is dedication. They managed to slip past the guards and build a makeshift raft, and were never seen again. The chances are they simply drowned trying to swim to San Francisco, but I’d like to think they made it to freedom – they certainly deserved a break after that....spoons, for crying out loud...

It has to be said that I was looking forward to Alcatraz more than anything else in San Francisco, and it didn’t disappoint, unlike Fisherman’s Wharf, which was so touristy and tacky my mum christened it ‘The American Blackpool’ which – coming from a woman who grew up in Blackpool, is fairly scathing. Pier 39, by contrast, was exactly what Fisherman’s Wharf should have been; authentic, quirky and enjoyable. The shops were brilliant – there was a memorabilia shop that could have kept me entertained for hours (though everything in it was laughably out of my price range – the most ludicrous being a guitar signed by Elvis, which was going for the bargain price of $25,000) and a specialised shop that sold exclusively socks. I love America.
We also biked the Golden Gate Bridge in our time here, which – despite being a cold and distinctly windy experience – is a very cool thing to have done. Overall I thoroughly enjoyed my time in San Francisco, however brief, and would happily come back – though I would stand by my initial impression that it just doesn’t have the vibe of New York, or the friendliness of Canada. Though the visit reignited my general irritation with Americans’ complete inability to identify a North British accent – in the two days I’ve been here, different people have asked me if I’m Australian, Scottish, Irish and – my personal favourite – Dutch. I ask you.

But right now, I am sat in the international terminal of LAX airport, following a brief internal flight and waiting to begin the dreaded 14-hour ordeal to New Zealand. Point of interest though – due to the time difference, Monday 13th December 2010 will never exist for me – we fly out of LA on Sunday night and arrive in Auckland on Tuesday morning. So how ‘bout that?