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Rebecca Writes

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America

Hot dogs in the fog city.

Three days in and we decided it was time to make our first trip into ‘The City’. Cousin Clay was our first tour guide of San Francisco and showed us the sights of the Tenderloin, North Beach and Chinatown. Driving up and down, and up and down, the dramatic hills all seemed a bit surreal and it wasn’t until we settled down with a sandwich the size of my head at Giordano’s that we had chance to let it sink in. It was good to have an insider’s guide to the place and it meant we could check out places that most tourists wouldn’t have on their to-do list.

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Fuelled by coffee and war stories.

This trip wouldn’t be possible without my boyfriend’s family links with the States and there would be no link if it wasn’t for a young Vince Schoenstein falling head over heels in love across the Red Cross ballroom. I’ve heard variations of the romantic tale of Vince and Moira but now I’ve had the opportunity to hear it first hand.

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Dime a Dozen

Twelve hours might not seem like a long time in the grand scale of things, it can fly by when you’re having fun. But when it’s flying by at 40,000 feet, things start to grind to a halt. Get stuck in the middle seats with your knees resting almost by your ears and suddenly twelve hours seems a million miles away (or 5,000).

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