Arrived SFO yesterday.
Walked to Hyde St. to get muni pass. They were closed.

Brunched with Clay, at Mama’s on Washington Square, where we both had the French Toast sampler, and we split a side of bacon and a side of home fries.

Hung out in the park talking, until a scary old guy decided that 62 degrees was just too damned warm for pants, and dropped trou in the middle of the park.

Bought truffles and salt water taffy for bus money.
Ended up taking cab.

Came back to hotel.
Called Fort Mason to find out where Meet and Greet was … meeting.
Found out venue had changed.

Wandered to Cioppinos on the wharf.
Had Aglio e Olio & lovely chardonnay while meeting and greeting.
Workshop leader reminds me of a fuzzier, warmer, more literary Brent Spiner.

No, really, he does.

Am tired, but looking forward to tomorrow.
Expect this will be most informative.

I’ve been in a blue funk for most of the week, though I came out of it for a bit last night during an unexpected thunderstorm. There was brilliant lightning and intense rain, and though the storm itself was here and gone within about 45 minutes, it was a refreshing change from sun and sun and more sun.

Fuzzy mentioned today that he has to pop down to Boca Raton sometime in July, which has me thinking about Orlando vacations. I’m not really a Disney fan, but I’ve never been to Epcot and the last time I was on a Universal Studio tour was in California when I was twelve.

What I really want, however, is the beach. The wind chimes sounded much like the clanging of ship’s bells during the beginning of the storm last night, and I sat on the deck and listened to the water sloshing in the pool and pretended I was somewhere coastal.

I don’t want to live in Florida, but we live too far from the beach right now - lakes do NOT cut it - and this must be fixed.

I’ve always enjoyed reading travel guides, and over the past few days, I’ve had a lot of time to explore online versions of Frommer’s and Fodor’s among others, but when I think of travel books, really, my brain first goes to a series of mystery novels written by the man who invented Paddington Bear.

The novels, written by Michael Bond, are a series of gastronomic mysteries featuring restaurant critic Monsieur Pamplemousse and his faithful bloodhound Pommes Frites.

These are comic mysteries, and always involve mishaps that occur while Mssr. P. is on a mission, trying a new restaurant to see if it deserves to be included, or have it’s stockpots (their rating system) increased, in Le Guide.

Somehow, in my travels, I’ve never seen anything as absurd as a man being koshed on the head by his own baguette, or being locked in a pay toilet.

I have, however, often paused to observe young lovers, arguing couples, and parents with children, and been as amused watching those interactions, than I ever was with the fictional detective and his pooch.

After two weeks in Hong Kong building out a new client’s data farm and stringing miles and miles of CAT5e cable in fashion colors, my husband is finally on the first leg of his journey back home.

Actually, he’s been on it for about 90 minutes, and he texted me before take-off that it was, “…a crappy old 747-400 without updated power or an entertainment system…” Poor guy. 14 hours in the air with literally NOTHING to do. I hope he remembered to buy a book. Oh, well, it’s an overnight flight - he can sleep for a lot of it.

You have to love traveling across the international date line, though. In Hong Kong, it was 2 PM Monday afternoon when he boarded the plane, and when he gets to his stopover in San Francisco, it will be 11:30 Monday morning.

I wonder if there’s a time paradox in arriving before you actually left?

While there’s still a big part of me yearning for time and money to indulge in one of those cushy Hilton Head rental houses, I’m even more excited about my upcoming visit to San Francisco.

Today, I’ve narrowed my hotel choices down to two. One of them, the Halcyon, is really inexpensive, but funky and interesting, if not quite in the neighborhood I wanted. The other is reasonably priced, though more expensive, and in a better neighborhood, closer to my conference site, and also comes with a complimentary gourmet breakfast, discounts at the day spa next door, and an English Pub with beer and games.

The first would mean buying breakfast, and a longer travel time. I’m cool with MUNI, of course, but the other is in a much more upscale locale, and as a woman traveling alone, would probably be the smarter bet.

If you’re reading this, please tell me, when you choose a hotel, do you go for price, location, amenities, or a bit of everything?

…but it’s completely true that at least a piece of my heart was left in San Francisco. As I told a friend over a lovely sushi lunch today, it’s my favorite city in the world, and if I ever had the opportunity to move back, even if it meant trading my writing life for one of many San Francisco jobs with far less autonomy, I would.

Sadly, however, Fuzzy’s career is the one that dictates where we live, and unless we want to trade our house here in Texas for a condo in Boca Raton, we’re not moving.

Still, I’m two months away from my writing conference, which will mean a whole week in the city by the bay and I’m getting more and more excited, even though it’ll also mean a week of no Fuzzy and no dogs, and funky pillows.

And probably losing another piece of my heart.

Sometime in the next few weeks I’ll be booking my flight and hotel room for my trip to San Francisco in August. As such, I’ve been skimming hotel websites reading about their amenities. I don’t really care if there are walk in bathtubs or not, as I don’t need an accessible room, but wifi is a must, and a free breakfast is useful. I’m looking for a hotel in or near the Marina district, and I found one I think will do, but not sure yet.

I’m looking forward to this trip for the actual conference as much as I’m looking forward to it just for a change of scenery. I do some of my best writing on hotel paper, or in places other than my own home. Something about being “away” just makes the creative juices flow.

I just wish I could be away and still have my dogs. I can sleep fine without Fuzzy if I have to, but sleeping without the comforting weight of a small dog on the covers in front of me is really odd.