Fisherman's Wharf was bustling and a bit chaotic. Sea lions lay sprawled on wooden planks, howling, their fishy smell wafting from afar. Bowls of clam chowder were piping hot, served while street performers sipped. Crab stalls lined the streets, piles of red shells high; you'd crack open a claw and pop a crab into your mouth, your fingers smeared with butter. A rickshaw clanged past, tourists craning their necks to watch—nothing particularly special, just a lively, down-to-earth atmosphere.