Towards the end of our week visiting friends and family in the Bay area, I had a free afternoon which I decided to spend near the Embarcadero and North Beach.

I took BART to the closest stop to the Ferry Building and planned to walk to the Exploritorium, the new waterfront science museum, and make use of a free pass that was gifted to me.

Boy did I feel like a tourist!

In this case, I don’t mean tourist in the best sense, as in a visitor seeking local sights with a fresh perspective. I mean tourist, as in a marked consumer target fielding non-stop invitations to indulge in over-priced cuisine and kitsch. Besides being a transit point for 11,000 commuters each day, the restored Ferry Building boasts over 65,000 square feet of restaurants and retail space.

Not interested in breaking my diet at either the Cowgirl Creamery or Mariposa Baking Company, I worked my way around the Hyatt and Embarcadero I, II, III and IV retail/office complexes and headed to North Beach.

Just blocks from the waterfront, the terrain started to get steep. As if perusing a stack of picture postcards at a drugstore display carousel, I quickly took in scenes that, while not beautiful Golden Gate Bridge at sunset shots, were still perfect images for the city on the Bay.

Along Broadway, I saw seedy sex shops and small hotels whose walls seemed like they should have fallen in to each other during the last earthquake. Near the gate to Chinatown, I saw an odd assemblage of elderly Han musicians trying to entice visitors to throw a few dollars their way. They played strange looking instruments under a red banner proclaiming ABCT: A Better Chinatown Tomorrow.

Then I turned down Columbus, veering away from the distorted pyramid shadow of the iconic Transamerica building so that I could find an Italian coffee shop and deli and treat myself to lunch. There were more than a few to choose from.

Even though it was sunny, I decided it was too cool to sit street side for hours, so I found a cozy café table inside by the window.  I wrote for hours, filling up pages of my journal while picking at a delicious prosciutto panini.

Then the notion filled my head that I had to go to City Lights, the penultimate independent bookstore.  Maybe I was feeling writerly.

Ah, City Lights. Once I slipped in off the street, I shimmied my way around crowded shelves, noting hand-written cards that announced staff recommendations and new releases published under their imprint. An arrow punctuated placard proclaimed “More on the second floor.”

I marveled at the range of titles and the vibe. Here, I could thumb through volumes featuring some of the newest of the new literary voices from around the world while feeling like I had walked back in time.

And I thought about Ginsberg and Ferlinghetti and the ruckus they caused after they opened the store in the fifties. City Lights was always revolutionary and somehow always had a very organic, go with the flow relationship with time. As other building tenants went out of business, they took over vacated spaces, one room at a time, in the barely post earthquake (1906) Artigues Building. In their fifty plus years in operation, they survived multitudes of financial challenges because people who loved the idea of the place stepped up to take on management roles and clerks worked for almost no pay.

At this point, I contemplated that I had been a tourist, an adventurer, and a pilgrim all within a few hours. As a tourist, I waded through a sea of earthly delights that someone who journeyed my route before me decided I might enjoy. As an adventurer, I followed in the moment impulses to wander a particular way down Columbus then choose a menu and a spot where I thought I could hang and write for hours.

Deciding to go to City Lights – now that was a pilgrimage. Going there was about more than checking off a suggestion on Trip Adviser. Standing besides its low-tech cash register, spotting 2013 versions of WPA style socially progressive posters in odd alcoves and hallways, seeing titles I’ve probably never seen on the bargain table at Barnes and Noble — all this meant a lot to me. Just standing there, I could only think about love for reading and courage in writing.

Sometimes, it’s the journey, not the destination. And sometimes it IS the destination.

Making a pilgrimage to a place where your heart feels at home is no small thing.