Long ago, in the era of flower-power, a heady nimbus of marijuana hung in the air. There isn't much left of that time . . . no cow bells, no butterfly dresses of gossamer . . . only the memories. Today San Francisco has banned the smoking of cigarettes in its restaurants and bars. The city means business . . . it rises early and jogs to work, breathing pure ions straight from the ocean.

Tourists of course are exempt from this struggle. On gently-sloped Sutter Street, in the maw of the Hotel Carlton they wake you late, to coffee and orange juice, great for the jet lag.

Dry Martini? The waitress smiles; she thinks I'm fooling; who knows . . . or now cares . . . that the peerless spirit was conceived in this very city in 1860 by Jerry Thomas behind the bar of the now defunct Occidental Hotel? The Carlton's concierge never heard of the Occidental. The reason is simple . . . it disappeared in a cloud of dust on 18 April 1906 (100 years ago last week) when, as dawn approached, the infamous earthquake, a merciless 8.3 on the Richter scale, struck downtown and almost everything standing up fell over or cracked.

Yet even then, even on its knees, this city could always fake a swagger. San Franciscans crawled from the rubble to find their city engulfed in fire. In the smouldering ruins a tented village provided shelter. Mopping up began, followed by the building of bigger, better, higher totems to the city's defiant belief in its prosperous future. Construction continues, taller still, more futuresque, a trend embodied in the Transamerica pyramid which points like a gleaming arrow aimed at the sun. The city's skyline, best viewed from the bay, is a tourist photo opportunity . . . a wow. It rises and dips, like the graph on the Richter during a hit.

To walk the sidewalks here is to find yourself on a switchback. Taking a cable car gets you there quicker. This clanging, rumbling, colourful San Francisco icon saves your breath and doesn't contribute to city pollution. It rates as a must, if just for the banter spieled by the best San Franciscan conductors: Hey, Robin Williams hitched a ride last week. He lives here. Don't freak if he shows!" You have been warned.

Williams has said he likes San Francisco's user-friendliness, its smallness. I like its neighbourhood diversity. I pass a Chinese shoeshine boy brushing vigorously as I scurry towards Little Italy . . . with its spicy-aroma delis and quick-hit coffee shops . . . en route to a free-ofcharge guided walk around North Beach, the cultural melting pot that attracted the likes of Jack Kerouac, Allen Ginsberg and like-minded writers of the pot-fugged 1950s.

My guide, Daniel, suggests a Vesuvio Cafe rendezvous on bohemian Columbus Avenue.

Arriving early at 9.30am, I grab the barstool favoured by Kerouac whose picture stares from the wall with a dreamy smile. Just what was he sniffing? Mike, the bartender, proffers a tincture of liquid contentment. I sip and dream. Next door, in the paperback preserve of the City Lights Bookstore, the beat-revolution surfaced in 1955.

Inside the Vesuvio, with its precious 'beat' memorabilia, it remains 1955 except for the purity of the air. Daniel appears, and takes a bunch of us on his North Beach magical history tour . . . 90 minutes of what, at its best, feels almost like eavesdropping. Daniel's spiel, as we walk the avenue towards the sea . . . pausing to breathe the aroma-rich cheese and herb emissions from Molinari's Italian deli . . . sounds like a cast of local characters let loose. The deli was built in 1908, " he says. The earthquake two years before had destroyed the whole precinct except for the church."

At Washington Square we learn how the 1849 gold rush kicked San Francisco into life.

We find where a bottle of cabernet sauvignon is buried and tackle the climb up Telegraph Hill. Pausing on Greenwich Street, we gaze back across the bay. We're where it's at, " puffs Merv, who lives in Sausalito, as he stares at the Golden Gate hills, today unclouded by ocean mist.

But 'where it's at' in San Francisco is almost anywhere: take a bicycle ride by the ocean at Baker's Beach to the Spanish fort at Marin Drive; visit Haight Ashbury for its vintage second-hand music stores and hippie-reek;

stroll aimlessly through the Mission district's bars and funky dives.

On Telegraph Hill (magnificent murals inside the Coit Tower, admission free), I am drawn by the sea. I jig towards the nearby Embarcadero, down Filbert Steps, and dance between the ferns and bougainvillea that adorn the pleasant gardens of the rich whose snazzy apartments jut from the cliff to gaze at the sunrise over the bay. The Embarcadero runs the length of Fisherman's Wharf, dominated by finger-piers and cruise boats that ply their loops around Alcatraz Island, or skim the waters beneath the bridge.

I snack at Ciopino's, then take to the waves, an hour of soporific cruising beyond the span of the Golden Gate, returning towards Alcatraz to dock by the frenzy of knick-knack shops and cafes. The bay experience is surely San Fancisco's 'must do' attraction. Its panorama of the city is sublime, and since San Francisco is an idea as much as a place, it's from there, offshore, that that idea coalesces into what it means to be here.

That night I dine at Bistro Boudin by the ocean. The food is delicious, the views unmatched. I tell my waiter (efficient and friendly . . . a commonality hereabouts) that I plan to head next day to the Earthquake exhibition at the Wells Fargo Museum. He seems stunned. ?You know . . . that earthquake thing, " he pauses, ?not a good vibe!" His way of telling me San Francisco walks the bright side of the road.

Despite his advice, I take in the Wells Fargo exhibit next morning and find it moving . . .

both in the sense of its use of early black-andwhite movies which show San Franciscans dazed, but determined, pulling their city back up by the bootstraps, and in the sense of the raw emotion that comes with terrible human tragedy. There, I stand at an upstairs window trying to picture the street below 100 years ago . . . covered in ash, a scumble of masonry and bodies. I think of New Orleans and of the recent devastation. If cities and governments are measured by how they respond in the direst straits, then San Francisco has cause to be proud of how it reacted in 1906.

I walk all day, taking in Nob Hill, pursuing the grail of tourist treasures: the Old US Mint, the famous 'street of painted balconies' . . .

Waverly Place . . . which enhances Chinatown, the oldest Chinese settlement in America. I aim to visit MoMA, the famous museum of modern art, for its Rothkos and Pollocks, but stop to eat and let my shoes cool.

There, at a table nearby, a man who looks wolfishly hungry is garnishing fries with a bottle of ketchup, much in the splash-style Pollock adored. I decide to forgo the MoMA option, and watch him cover the chequered tablecloth with spatters. Perhaps he's a Jackson Pollock disciple? Perhaps he's just footsore.

San Francisco makes you hungry, it makes you happy, it takes its toll.

Tom Adair was a guest of Kuoni and the San Francisco Convention & Visitors Bureau

THE FACTS

Kuoni Travel has a dedicated website on www. kuoni. co. uk where you can tailor-make your own holiday to America. They offer a seven-night holiday, including car hire and flights with United Airlines, staying three nights at The Carlton in San Francisco and four nights at the Best Western Sutter House, Sacramento, from 1,170 per person, flying from London Heathrow. With flights from Dublin via London Heathrow, prices starts at 1,400.

For tourist information on San Francisco, visit: www. sfvisitor. org For general tourist information on California go to:
www. visitcalifornia. com