I was just outside of San Jose when my iPhone began buzzing inside the cup holder of my rental car, notifications lighting up the screen like a slot machine jackpot. My hand twitched toward the phone, muscle memory stronger than willpower.

“Mom.” My 10-year-old son Everest in the backseat barely looked up from his Nintendo Switch. “You’re doing the grabby thing again.”

He was right. For all my lectures about his screen time, I had my own digital addiction. I often found myself longing for a time before the constant hum of connectivity, when being offline didn’t feel like falling behind.

That’s when I made an impulsive decision. Once we hit San Francisco, we’d time-travel the only way modern families could — by going analog. No screens, no feeds, no Switch. Just one day in the past, lived fully in the present.

**7 p.m.: Checking in and opting out **

Our first stop was the Ritz-Carlton San Francisco, a 1909 neoclassical jewel perched atop Nob Hill, rising like a monument to a more elegant age. White-gloved bellmen greeted us with quiet precision, their crisp uniforms and practiced ease making the handoff of our bags feel like choreography.

Crossing the threshold felt like stepping through a portal. Marble floors gleamed beneath towering columns, and the chandeliers cast a warm, golden light. The urgency of the outside world faded. The air changed. Time, it seemed, had different rules here.

Once inside our room, I solemnly powered off my phone, a small ceremony for the digital life I was leaving behind. The quiet that followed felt almost eerie.

“This feels weird,” Everest said, breaking the stillness.

A moment later, there was a knock at the door. A tray arrived: warm cookies and cold milk for Everest, delivered without fanfare, without expectation of photos or hashtags. Just a simple hospitality — the kind that lingers in lifelong memories, not on a feed.

I reached for a cookie and paused, surprised by what I wasn’t doing. No reflexive grab for the phone. No instinct to capture. Maybe this wouldn’t be so hard after all.

7 a.m.: Mechanical poetry

We began our day at the Powell Street cable car turnaround, where San Francisco’s most iconic mode of transportation still rumbles to life. Invented here in 1873 by Andrew S. Hallidie, these are the last manually operated cable cars in the world.

“It’s like sitting in a grandfather clock,” Everest said as the car lurched, the bell clanging warnings.

Since cable cars can’t reverse, operators must physically turn each car on a revolving wooden turntable at the terminus. As we swayed up the steep inclines, the city spread below us like a rumpled map, the bay glittering like scattered coins.

9 a.m.: Lost in translation

It took some effort to find the Golden Gate Fortune Cookie Factory without Google Maps to guide us. “We could ask someone,” Everest suggested.

An elderly woman noticed my tourist distress. “You looking for something?”

She directed us down Ross Alley, a slender artery I hadn’t even noticed, then offered a dim sum recommendation for good measure. People, it turned out, worked better than GPS.

Inside the fortune cookie factory, the room was dim, fragrant with warm vanilla, and packed with antique machinery. Since 1962, this pocket-sized workshop has produced 10,000 cookies a day with batter dripping onto rotating iron griddles. The warm cookies, pliable for only a few seconds, are hand-folded with a hypnotic rhythm.

Before we left, an employee pressed cookies — flat, unfolded and fresh from the griddle — into our open hands. “Still warm,” she murmured. We ate them as the crisp edges began to set, the sweetness lingering just long enough to register before it was gone.

12 p.m.: Elegant improvisation

Afternoon tea at the Palace Hotel’s Garden Court felt like slipping into a living Fabergé egg. Though the original 1875 hotel had been lost to the 1906 earthquake, what rose from its ashes was even more spectacular. The rebuilt Garden Court, crowned by its magnificent 1909 glass dome and cascade of chandeliers, pulsed with an opulence that surpassed even its legendary predecessor.

The tea service unspooled like a fairy tale: silver teapots catching the light, tiered trays stacked with miniature sandwiches, jewel-box pastries, and warm scones with clotted cream.

With no screens to distract us, we noticed everything: the curl of steam rising from teacups, the clink of china, the hushed tones of nearby conversations. We made up backstories for strangers and imagined the secrets this room had overheard across a century of sophisticated afternoons.

2 p.m.: Hands-on wonder

The Exploratorium — San Francisco’s temple to hands-on discovery since 1969 — was the perfect counterpoint to the vintage elegance of tea time. While the rest of the city preserved its past, this interactive science museum has always been about touching, testing and thinking differently.

I watched Everest vanish into the darkness of the Tactile Dome, a pitch-black labyrinth navigated by touch alone, swallowed by an experience that couldn’t be screen-grabbed. His voice echoed from the darkness: “Mom, you have to try this!”

For an hour, we lost ourselves in exhibits demanding participation. Mirrors bent reality into pretzels, sound waves became visible, pendulums drew elegant patterns in sand.

4 p.m.: Temptation

Musée Mécanique at Pier 45 is part museum, part arcade and entirely a love letter to the mechanical amusements of the last century. More than 300 vintage machines, from hand-cranked dioramas to 1980s-era games, line the space, all still operational and powered by pocket change.

Then we hit a snag. A group of kids around his age huddled around their phones, excitedly showing each other something. Their animated chatter about a new game update made Everest’s face fall.

“Can I use your phone?” he asked. “I want to search up that game.”

But before I could answer, he’d already spotted something else — the brightly lit, Road Race pinball machine — and the phone was forgotten. For the next hour, Everest moved from fortune tellers to boxing matches to player pianos, laughing as mechanical wonders came alive.

6 p.m.: Island of isolation

Our cruise, part of the San Francisco CityPASS, pulled out from Pier 33, engines growling, slicing through waters once crossed by gold-seekers and prison ferries. We were headed for Alcatraz, the bay’s most infamous rock.

As we approached the island, my phantom phone anxiety peaked. I imagined emails piling up, calls multiplying, the digital world spinning without me.

“The prisoners probably felt like this,” I said suddenly. “Cut off, wondering what was happening in the world.”

“Except they were actual prisoners,” Everest pointed out. “You’re still in the world.”

The return ferry revealed San Francisco in all its impossible glory: hills defying gravity, bridges slicing through mist, neighborhoods cascading down slopes in waves of color. Here, self-driving cars navigated around cable cars, and start-ups were based in Victorian houses. The city existed in multiple timelines at once.

7 p.m.: Sweet surrender

As golden hour bathed the city, we made our final stop: Ghirardelli Square, where the iconic chocolate sign flickered like a beacon from another era. Inside the original 1966 ice cream shop, the past didn’t feel preserved, it pulsed. Checkered floors, vintage chocolate-making tools, and the massive “G,” salvaged from the historic rooftop sign, gave the place the charm of a working museum.

Everest went straight for the World Famous Hot Fudge Sundae, a towering glass of vanilla ice cream drowned in molten chocolate, crowned with whipped cream and a cherry. He took a bite and closed his eyes, reverent and happy.

I asked Everest what he thought of our analog day.

“It was harder than I thought,” he said. “My brain kept reaching for my Switch even when I didn’t want to play. But everything felt more … real, I guess? Like, bigger. And it was nice to have you without your phone.”

As we walked through the square, under a sky smudged with the last light of the day, I realized our experiment had revealed something unexpected for me: stepping away from screens didn’t mean stepping out of the world. It meant stepping deeper into it.