I touch down in a blur of black, my travel ensemble of hoodie with cami, jeans and cute shoes. I jump in my Yuppie SUV and swing by Foo’s after stopping for water and snack supplies at Trader Joe’s, frantic already. Things to do, things to do, things to do, I am the white rabbit and I am late already and it has only just begun. We speed over hills to the Ferry Building and then exhale, drinking wines and eating oysters that taste like the entirety of the ocean just kissed me hard and full on the lips. We eat all the oysters that ever were, talking of shoes and ships and sealing wax, of cabbages and kings. Even then, we are late, we are late, we are late. We rush out of dinner, pick up the car at the valet, drop Foo at the train station and I then am off across the Bay Bridge to fetch Jake from the Oakland Airport. Late. Late. Late. This city with its speed bumps for giants will not permit a frantic schedule. I divert my panic by listening to my favorite station, the one for the gay boys. When dance music is playing, you can devote no attention to stress, because you must concentrate fully upon being fucking fabulous.
Jake graciously accepts my order that he drive the car, because the bridge, oh god, the bridge it freaks me out. I have never liked the Bay Bridge, not even one bit, although granted, it is really beautiful, but man, freaky like nobody’s business. From the terrace on my hotel room, we have a beautiful view through gaps in San Francisco’s smile. In the fog, the Bay Bridge looks like it ends in open air. Shazam! You are flying. A fog horn calls and a cable car answers.
We both wake up insanely early, so we leisurely grab coffee at the corner Bux then meander across the city over to Zazie’s, where we have a gorgeous breakfast with Shannon and La Wade. Both ladies have made crazy alterations in their schedules to have breakfast with us, 
Shannon working extra late hours in order to take a Friday morning off and La Wade taking moments out before leaving for the airport to begin her own weekend away. It is so great to see them and the food is incredible and then we stop by Wade’s to say hi to Iggy and also listen for the first time to the second podcast. And my first sans permanent retainer. I totally can tell the difference, but I don’t know if anyone else can. (It’s titled ‘Crime’ in iTunes, under ‘3 Fast 3 Furious’ audio podcast section. There’s also a new one up about Vacations, in which I tell a very drunken and obnoxiously boring story about my luggage and leading me to believe I should just shut the hell up for now and forever.)
After breakfast, we meet
Foo and then, after a quick stop at Ikea, we are off to Napa, like obnoxious yuppies, munching on cupcakes that are really brownies covered in peanut butter frosting and then topped with nipples of toasted marshmallow and also perhaps a touch of original sin. I make inappropriate overtures and am thankful that the cupcakes cannot take legal recourse. Aw hell, you can’t tell me they didn’t enjoy that. When it is over, I am sticky up to my elbows and have a little down my bra. (Seriously, people, Delessio’s on Market’ learn it, live it, love it). Our drive goes quickly, filled with hilarious stories and anecdotes and then the vague promise of Bouchon somewhere around Yountville. I predict that we should be able to use my random style of navigation, which is to divine the location by going whichever way looks right. It’s frustrating for the other people in the car, but 90% of the time, the place is exactly where I suspect it will be, and the other 10 % of the time? You use a cell phone or ask someone. Personally, I tout this as proof that I have not gone off the deep end as a control freak, because a true OCD would go crazy not knowing for sure where something was. Or maybe this is therapy. Regardless, Jen spots Bouchon exactly two blocks in from our first turn off the highway, so chalk up another successful Zen navigation.
I forgot to make reservations (I did try making French Laundry reservations two months ago, and probably got mixed up and thought I also reserved Bouchon in case) but they seated us after fifteen minutes, as the lunch rush was just ending. We have a languorous luncheon that just keeps getting better. Our first course goat cheese salad and the best bread and butter in all of creation (apparently he will only buy specific artisan butter from special snooty cows in Vermont) seem impossible to top, but then our drinks arrive, 
followed by the little glass pot of foie gras with the log cabin built of epi, which makes me want to research a career as a socialite or possibly a veal calf. And then our meals: Jake’s lamb sandwich (which was a last minute substitution from the tuna they had promised) is divine, my bubbly pot of the famous Thomas Keller French onion soup is truly exceptional and Foo’s white sausage might just be the gold standard to which all other sausages should be judged, as it tumbles apart in a gentle rush of comfort in your mouth. Oh, hi, phallic metaphor, how are you doing? After a blood orange negroni, I decide that I will probably never have another chance to try Far Niente Dolce botrytis wine, so I splurge on a glass and declare that our $20 bottle of the imposter wine is better, which gives me great comfort to know that I’m not missing out on anything just because I don’t want to spend $110 a bottle for Dolce. But then! Oh but then, it is time for dessert: I take a smallish taste of Jake’s lemon pie and decline Foo’s profiteroles because my pot du cr’me’ fucking hell, the pot du cr’me. Each creamy spoonful has a disappearing quality on my tongue, the whisper of vanilla and fairies and sprinkled with wishes come true. It is the childhood I never had, all condensed into a little white cup. I threaten to fellate it and the ladies who lunch at the next table give me a sneer.
A long time ago, I sampled a dessert wine at a dinner party that I fell in love with, and the 
host told me that you could only get it at the winery in Napa, so my companions indulged me and we wandered up the highway, past the most beautiful landscapes imaginable, until we found it. I bought three bottles, then discovered that they also made a botrytis wine, so I check it out and decide that at $40 a bottle, it is a hair better than our $20 version, so I splurge on their version just to fill the fourth spot in my wine carrier. I know that this is questionable logic and the only answer I can give is that I had five glasses of very strong wine in a very short space of time, so there it is.
Foo and Jake drunk dial Mopie, who is not sure what’s going on, but they shout a victorious Salty Licorice at her, and then she asks me to explain it, which is just silly, because I’m the one whose had the most to drink that day and Jake hadn’t had anything, since he was driving. We blow back into town, laughing about anal sex and midgets and possibly pirates (there are always pirates). As we drive over the Bay Bridge, we are screaming the lyrics to ‘Don’t Stop Believing’ at the top of our lungs. I bury my voice on Treasure Island. The mist is rolling in and calls for an encore but Journey is no longer taking requests, because you think you’re so pretty.
We change for dinner and then cab over to the Mission to meet Jake’s siblings for a delightful dinner filled with laughter and stories of snail crushing. It seems silly to even bother with mortal food when we had dined upon the food of culinary gods for lunch. I start to get sleepy at the table and revert to pounding cappuccinos and straight coffee with lumps of unrefined sugar. Afterward, we sit on the rooftop, laughing and talking about how sceney this bar has become, staring out at the panoramic hills light with sparkles and huddling around the burning cherry of a single cigarette. Seventy-year-old marquees watch over us and I’m struck by the way that every vignette from the day has felt like a movie still. This is not my beautiful life. Sometimes I think that if I had unlimited funds, I would have a part time residence here in this tantalizing conglomeration of evil steep hills, blinking lights, fog and people. Sometimes I think I can see a glimpse of the girl I might have been. This city is pure potential, played in a high speed montage, and it is addictive. Already I am getting sad that I must leave in a few days.
I shiver in the backseat of a cab back to the hotel, the mist having sapped all of my reserves, but a plan is suggested for dancing and yes, dancing it is. We swap our dining clothes for edgy wear and somehow catch a town car, which undoubtedly makes the people in the line outside the club either wonder if we’re secretly in the industry or perhaps that we’re posers. Probably the latter.
Inside, gay bois dance without shirts. In the line for the unisex bathroom, I make friends with Quinn and Roger who love my black and white graphic print cami and tell me that I have a Betty Page thing going on, sans whip and corset. Um, ok. I tell the bartender that I am too sober and need to catch up, so while I’m waiting for him to make a long island sweet tea, the girl bartender gives me a free margarita and then flirts and checks out my rack. I love this bar. We laugh next to a waterfall while same sex couples make out behind palm fronds. Soon, I am caught up and well, not only caught up, but in the lead. We never make it to the dance floor, which is probably a good idea, and instead go outside and catch another limo cab. The city spins, reflected against the ceiling of a town car and in the distance I can hear the low thump of jumping cars and it makes me think of Patsy Cline. I question which way is up but in three seconds we are at the hotel. On the terrace, the stars mirror my head and spin like a turntable at 33 1/3 rpm, the Transamerica Pyramid scratches out a good mix. I crawl into bed and am carried swiftly out to sleep in a buried Gold Rush ship.
The next morning comes in four minutes, and I am awakened by a knock on my door. Damn that Jake for being chipper and completely dressed so fucking early. Except that it wasn’t early and it was the opposite of early if you consider the jet lagging. I stumbled into the shower, still feeling a little iffy, but put forth my typical refusal to acknowledge that anything is the matter. Jake returns with Bux, which I down and wish for another, and then we are off for the day’s prescribed fantastic events. We find parking outside of the de Young museum and then pass a hot dog stand, which seems like a really good idea right then. And it is actually a fantastic hot dog, truly exceptional. I also down a diet Coke and feel bolstered. Jake notes that there will be a performance art live sculpture later in the afternoon and we both say in tandem ‘Let’s not be here’ And then we both laugh. It’s going to be a great day.
We wander through the museum and have a delightful morning, pointing out the paintings we love and the styles that we are not so much into. 
We linger over the Arts and Crafts exhibit and mentally furnish the houses we’d own if we were bazillion quadrillionaires. Then we walk up to the Japanese Tea Garden and have tea, which settles my angry tummy.
Once upon a time, I had a dream about the Japanese Tea Garden. It was an unusual dream in that most of mine have plots and subplots, cross reference previous dreams and involve some kind of amorphous element that is hard to explain. Esteban once joked that I dreamed in the language of Philosophy text books. But this one was simple. I was wearing all black and sat at one of the weird little benches in the tea pavilion with my feet up on another one. It was raining, a slow steady warm rain, the kind that is perfect to nap during, and the drops gathering and falling off the branches made definite erratic punctuation in the staccato droplets. I was just writing into my little moleskine notebook and I think the premise was that I must have lived in the City, since I can’t imagine having the luxury of leisure on one of my standard vacations, where everything is go go go see see see and do do do (dada da da). 
It must have only been a glimpse, right then, a setting that got interrupted by the epic mindpicture from the likes of Wes Anderson and Camus, but it has always stuck with me. And each time I revisit the Tea Garden, I am surprised to find that I am not wearing all black and do not have my notebook and what is more, it is not raining. But one of these times, I suspect that it will happen exactly that way and then I will find out what happens next.
We then go to Stow Lake, where we are fulfilling a childhood angst for Jake, which is to rent one of the little vintage motorboats. We are told that as long as we don’t abandon the boat or ram anything, we will get back a dollar deposit, which just seems absurd. I would totally pay a dollar to ram something. Although the boats are a little underpowered, by design I’m certain, but still, the knowledge that the only retribution for destruction is a dollar is somewhat empowering. It’s a good thing he’s driving, as I would be ramming into families on paddle boats, just for sport. We brought lunch on board, but my hotel refrigerator has frozen the shit out of our salads and sandwiches, so we content ourselves with brie and cheese straws and mostly frozen strawberries. 
The hour goes by much too quickly. As we are driving, I feel my lack of sleep catching up with me, so I suggest that we stop at a Jamba Juice, where I get a giant energy something or other with an energy boosty thing. It bolsters me for some shopping (and I then realize that we’re at the same corner where I got the great orange slippers on the last trip and am stymied by the serendipity) but after an hour, I am back where I started and then some. I cry No Mas and suggest that we go back to the hotel so that I can nap. After a restorative two hours of dreaming, I wake up and get dressed for dinner with Foo, Shannon, Jake and Fellisima. We grab a cab and are off. I get a lemon drop that is inexplicably pink (subsequent lemon drops were not) and then flirt with the gay waiters and host, who, upon my request, breaks into songs from Broadway musicals while seating us on our desired table on the porch. The food at Home is, well, simple and comforting and satisfying. The corn bread makes me want to shrink down to Thumbelina size and crawl into it and fall asleep. My meatloaf and mashed potatoes are great but since Jake and I covet each other’s meal, we trade half way through and I finish his steak and fries. Fantastic food, delightful conversation and a table of gay men humping each other’s backs throughout dinner, capped by an encore performance by our host, singing a few lines of Seasons Of Love before blushing and running into the kitchen to cry. After dinner, we wander up the street to Lucky 13, which is going to be closing at some point in the future. I love Lucky 13. They play good music, have grouchy bartenders and recognize the essential importance of my personal lucky number. Our party dwindles to four and then three and then we are catching a cab back to the hotel.
On Sunday, we pack up the SUV, pick up Jen and then head south. Jen and I drop Jake off at the train station, as he is off to a family function, while we have bigger fish to fry. Or bigger fry to fish, as we are heading to the Monterey Aquarium. 
We have a delicious discussion during the drive down and get to the Aquarium in plenty of time. There, we are entertained by the otters and then run off to find sharks. However, we are shark-blocked, as the sharks are disappointing and wee. I am starting to wonder if I will ever see such unmatched monsters as the late residents of the Aquarium of the Americas in New Orleans.
We write a parking ticket for an abandoned stroller, then head north on the recommended Highway 1, driving until once again, I can almost hear the background music swelling and see the crane cam shot from above. Just as the Pacific, all craggy and glorious comes into view, a vintage VW bus, driving by an authentic pot-smoking dred-wearing white guy hippy crests over the hill toward us. Cue the CCR and the character actor to provide comedy relief. A light house sits on a point under a beam of setting sun, and the Pacific’s mist covers any rosy orangey credit-worthy glow. I could easily keep driving on this highway, in our big red Yuppie box, and if we didn’t have plans with Shannon and possibly Een for dinner, we might do just that. The conversation fuels us forward, until 
somewhere north of Half Moon Bay, we are told by road signs that so sorry, too bad, you have no more road. We back track and then get directions to the next route and then are back on track, starving and feeling responsible for what was really bad signage (and really, it’s the Terminator’s fault). We called everyone and gave them a head’s up, then made plans to meet for post-dinner chatting at Shannon’s apartment. Foo and I are crazy from hunger at that point, so we find an In ‘n’ Out burger and wait in line behind people I immediately identify as Wisconsinites. Upon closer inspection, we learn that yes, they are from Wisconsin and in fact, from a town forty miles away from Green Bay. As they try ineffectively to chat up the busy In ‘n’ Out counter workers, I contemplate the reality of never ever going back to Wisconsin and then realize that this is the biggest Show Don’t Tell device ever. Fucking movie script.
We eat our burgers in the car, speeding over to Shannon’s, as it is late, so late, and we feel like assholes for somehow screwing everything up. Or rather, I feel like an asshole, for never having driven on Highway 1 and thinking that we had enough time to make it back for sushi. We take the hills like the SUV is our own personal rollercoaster and it makes me giddy. We offer Shannon a flower to show how sorry we were for standing her up and then chat with her and her roommate Brian, who is very very cute and funny. Then we walked back down the hill, she in search of a peppermint patty, Jen off to the Muni and me to climb back into the SUV and deal with the fact that my social weekend has come to the end. I take the long way back to the hotel, just so that I can ride over hill and dale and hill again, feeling inertia take me by the belly button and lift me out of the seat. I’m probably doing something illegal, taking these hills at 30 mph, feeling the rear of the car scrape against pavement, but as I’m passing hookers and heroine junkies, I can’t wonder if the SFPD doesn’t have more to worry about than a tourist doing ollies with her rental car. Back in the neighborhood paved with ship graves, I drive around looking for just the perfect parking spot, not really wanting to get out of the car, because it means that I will have to say good bye, and I didn’t even do half the things I wanted to do, see half the people I meant to see. I think about how the night before, while standing on the ledge overlooking the Bay, I could already start to feel myself breaking.
We had decided to go for a drive across the Golden Gate bridge. We chased across North Beach and made a pit stop for gelato (suddenly, the lemon and cranberry in my evenings libations gave me a sour tummy) except that they didn’t have banana so I settled for Nutella. We drove across the bridge, then stopped at Buena Vista to stare at the city and once again, I was a character in a movie, a walk on role that somehow turned into the main character in a revival of Alice in Wonderland, a role never written for me. I am not a plump Carrie Bradshaw, skipping across cable car tracks in Pucci-inspired mules with kitten heels, and yet. Yet. The city is so beautiful and heartbreaking. I can’t help but wonder what would have happened had I not turned down the acceptance to the University of San Francisco. I hate the fact that it is a clich’, but it is true. San Francisco has my heart, clutched somewhere between Russian and Nob Hills. Sometimes I feel like a clumsy teenager, in love with the pretty jock who has grace and style and presence, and everyone can see that it’s never going to happen. We would not be good for each other, San Francisco and I. We both know that. And really, I am too old to succumb to nostalgia for something that has never been and never will be. San Francisco just brings it out of me, makes me lose control of my emotions and I don’t even understand why. This is my fifth trip and it just gets harder each time. Maybe I should just stop this silliness right now, stop it and never look back. The inevitable good-bye is getting too hard.
I find a place to park only steps from the front door, unload my things and traipse past the dark Starbucks, past the artful tagging and up to my hotel room. I could almost pretend that I lived here, but already the guise is failing. Even though the mist is kissing my face with tiny droplets of cold, I go out onto my private terrace one more time to stare out at the Bay and wonder just what it is that always brings me back. It will never feel like home, this city, and yet, I want to stay hidden in its valleys, reduce myself to a mirror image inside its looking glass buildings. It will never feel like home and yet, it feels like it knows me better than I know myself. And so good-bye, you pulsing city of fog and ambition and uncertain foundations mired in buried history. Good-bye hills and pretty bois and cars that bounce. Good-bye to rabbit holes and what could have been and what isn’t and what will never be. Good-bye. Good-bye. Good-bye.
