I know the way to San Jose

From departing Auckland at 6.15am to landing in San Francisco at 11.30am I've changed planes twice and been on the go a total of 17 hours, much of it spent watching movies – Milk, The Artist, The King's Speech, My Week With Marilyn, Hitchcock, Silver Linings Playbook. Perhaps unsurprisingly I've been hit by jetlag for the first time since late February (all the travelling I've done since then has involved no more than a couple of hours' time difference). On the NZ to US leg, I almost arrived before I set off!

I'm staying with old Scottish friends Bill and Denise in Sunnyvale, a town not far from San Jose. Denise picks me up and on arrival at their apartment I just have to nap – my eyelids are dropping like lead weights. Later, we go out for mojitos and quesadillas. 

The following day I'm out for the count until Denise knocks on the door saying it's 10.15am. It's a scorching day so we zoom off in Denise's little sports car with the top down, headscarves and sunglasses on like something out of a Fifties movie. 

We take the freeway south. The traffic is a bit of a shock to the system after New Zealand – six lanes on each side and each one busy. We park at a state reserve on the coastline north of Santa Cruz and walk along the cliffs.

We see three young guys standing on the very edge of the cliff being lashed by waves crashing up and over the rocks. A little risky. They're just laughing, though.

We eat sandwiches in a sandy cove and I discover a fern grotto when I go off looking for a secluded spot to have a pee. We see seals basking on one of the flat outcrops, like plump sausages on a grill. Talking of grills, back in Sunnyvale it's barbecue time. I've tried to find halloumi to grill but something called 'grilled cheese' is the best I can do. It's not a huge success so thank goodness for the zucchini, the eggplant and the mushrooms. Not to mention the rosé!

One morning Denise takes me to her aqua aerobics class in the local outdoor pool. The claim to fame here is that Teri Hatcher went to school next door. We are the youngest by decades and as we do the underwater bicycle up and down the lanes in the sunshine, with our flotation belts pulled in tight, I am quizzed about my travels, given tips, asked about Scotland, filled in on the ancestors. All the while Lisa, the instructor, blows her whistle and shouts out the next exercise – jumping jacks, jogging, squats and the flamingo, quite a tricky manoeuvre involving balancing on a noodle with one foot and back-peddling with the other. 

Bill has a half day holiday so we set off for Santa Cruz, stopping off at Burrell School Vineyards, a gorgeous spot near Los Gatos with views over the sun-drenched vines. The cellar door is in an old school building and the lady on duty, the owner I think, reminds me of Stifler's mom from American Pie. Denise volunteers for the tasting as Bill is designated driver and it's far too early for me. 

Then we drive down to Capitola, south of Santa Cruz, and walk the esplanade. 

The beach is packed with mums and kids just out of school and the smallish waves are perfect for the dozens of junior surfers practising their moves. There are fun tiles along the low wall at the back of the beach and a terrace of candy coloured Adobe style houses right on the beachfront. I like it. It feels unpretentious, the sort of place you'd feel comfortable saying, 'Oh sod the muffin top' and letting it all hang out in a bikini. 

After lunch we drive inland to walk the Redwood circuit in Henry Cowell Park. I didn't realise Redwoods are so community minded. They grow in clumps and end up sharing the root system, evolving into one multi-trunked tree and shaking off branches that are surplus to requirements. We see warning signs about mountain lions...eek.

A little further up the road there's a sign pointing to a covered bridge. I've never been on one and have no idea why some bridges came to be covered. Protection from the weather, maybe? There is something mysterious about the dark interior while the lofty proportions give the structure a solid majesty. A shame it's no longer in use.

Bill and Denise have cleverly organised a night out on our way home, at a venue called the Don Quixote, in Felton in the Santa Cruz hills. On the bill tonight is a Prince tribute band called The Purple Ones and they're on stage soon after we arrive to do the longest sound check ever, with most of the audience already gathered. 
The gig is not well attended. It's been such a hot day that everyone is probably flopping at home or having barbecues. However, the minute the band come on dressed in their performance finery, the dancefloor starts jumping with Santa Cruz's cookiest crew – the woman doing full ballet moves, á pointe; the Downs Syndrome lady who is up first, joyful and jumping; another girl who spins her arms in circles, all the time; some grizzled old hippy geezers who drift on and off from manning the ticket desk; three young blondes in black who look so cool I can't help thinking they've come to the wrong place; and me and Denise. It's people-watching par excellence. We all have a really great night.