San Francisco: An Epistle
Dear San Francisco,
I owe you an apology.
I’m sorry I went to Seattle and said it was just as good as you but without the price tag. I’m sorry I was seduced by Portland’s brunch culture and thought you’d be too blinded by your own ego to measure up. I’m sorry I allowed myself to be embraced by LA’s warmth and enticed by its sushi. I’m sorry I was dazzled by DC’s worldly intellectualism, Asheville’s hospitality, and Denver’s charming schizophrenia.
I love you, San Francisco.
You, knowing this, set out to impress me anyway, which is one of the many reasons I love you. A day of perfect weather and mind-blowing food…a seat at Tartine (apparently impossible) and a reservation at the impossibly exclusive Frances on a Friday night… A quiet table with a window and a power outlet at Church Street Cafe in the effortlessly stylish Castro… A brilliant 6km run along the waterfront…followed (shamefully) by almond brittle with cinnamon for breakfast… A singer/songwriter in Ritual Café who could do amazing things with his voice. You gave me what I wanted, in spades. You love-bombed me. You offered bikes and coffee roasters that I reluctantly passed up.
I needed more time with you.
I’d said that about every city on the way, but this time I really meant it.