We were going to our hotel, in a car that fit neatly into the stereotype of a brutishly American gas-guzzler, and which we affectionately named ''the fire truck''.

We checked into the hotel before going out to find lunch. Jack, Hamish and I decided that we would settle for a few parmas and a bowl of soup at a small restaurant around the corner. The first thing we noticed was the high level of service from the waitress, bringing us drinks and taking our orders straight away. But it was when she stole my drink away from me when it was half full to refill it, that we realised that we had forgotten about the unique American custom of tipping.

We were gripped by fear at the daunting task of paying the right amount, having to check a travelling guide to find what was appropriate. In the end we just left an extra 25% with the bill and ran as fast as we could.

After lunch we went on to the famous San Francisco tourist spot of Fisherman’s Wharf. Although it was raining, we managed to enjoy ourselves in the Ripley’s museum, the Rainforest Cafe (where you are literally competing with a plethora of animals in order to make conversation), and the various shops, watching out for crab-wielding madmen pouncing from the crowds and preying on the shocked cries of their victims with hearty laughter.

We then had dinner in Mel’s Diner, an incredibly lucid replica of the diners seen in 1950s movies, with authentic jukeboxes still mounted on the walls beside the tables, crayons and drawing paper as placemats and by far the greatest milkshakes ever tasted.

Discounting these flashes and splashes of culture, America isn’t as different, or as daunting, as we first thought.

We blended in rather seamlessly, although this was probably because they thought we were British (Ben Shepherd had to correct an innocently ignorant passer-by).

All we need to do is learn how to tip the deserving and figure out the ludicrous currency system (I swear all the notes are identical!), and we’ll be San Fran locals in no time.