Usually, in a new city, I am reminded of other cities I've been to. This downtown square - it reminds me of parts of London. This rolling residential neighborhood - it's like the one I lived in in Iceland. But - San Francisco. I could make no such comparisons. It is an original. After emerging from the BART into Union Square late Friday night, I decided I had never seen a crowded urban street so relaxed - and so exuberant at the same time. Definitely not the straight-ahead, gridlocked feel of Chicago streets! That night, as we tumbled exhausted into our hotel bed, we were serenaded by a melodious saxophone player on the street 8 floors below, the occasional "ding-ding" of the cable car, and the usual street sounds (shrieking girls, drawn-out honks). Lovely!

We awoke bright and early the next morning, eager and ready (except for a migraine!) to tackle the city. We had just a day to see the sights, since we decided to hop on a plane back to DFW just after midnight. Union Square was a good place to start, and on early Saturday morning, it was ideal for ambling. The big-ticket department stores crowding the blocks were impressive, for sure. But I admired most of all the city planning that allowed for large squares for artwork displays, outside latte sipping, and palm trees. I think most cities would be happier if we could mingle like this.

Next, we headed to Haight Street (via the Muni) to continue the love affair. People playing with their dogs in the parks and soaping up cars on the street - the only thing holding me back from plopping down roots here was visions of massive rent payments.

We took a walking tour of Haight-Ashbury, guided by a "comedian," Cameron. (I say "comedian" because of lame jokes like "How is the neighborhood like a tight pair of pants? No ballroom!") Haight itself is much like Belmont, with quirky pirate shops, unwashed masses, and an overall demographic of about 20-25. But then we hiked up cross streets (and yes, I mean HIKED) and learned about architecture and 60s history. We saw where Janis Joplin rented a room, where the Grateful Dead stayed and wrote songs, where Charles Manson lived and built his cult, and where the Hell's Angels had their headquarters (surprisingly cutesy house!) . We skirted the edge of steep, woody Buena Vista Park, inhaling the scent of pine while snapping shots of awesome architecture.

This neighborhood was one of the few that survived the '06 earthquake. They have tons of Victorian houses here, even though in the 60s the general feel was that this style was a blight on the city, and they did their best to wipe it out.

After grazing on vegetarian enchiladas at the Peace Cafe, we headed to the Cable Car Museum. I had anticipated little interest in this, but I was surprised. I did not know that these cables actually run the little trolleys (not the correct term, I learned). They are constantly whirring and humming under the streets. And we found it funny that mass transit advertising hasn't changed...

Onto the harbor and Fisherman's Wharf, skidding down the steep street all the way to the coast. We spent most of the afternoon here, just wandering. (Ah, the joys of being cheap and/or easily amused.) We explored the boats docked here, historical significance, etc etc. We saw Alcatraz and Golden Gate Bridge in the distance. We lounged on the bright green grass, and when I called my mom from this supine position, she recommended a Ghirardelli hot fudge sundae, of which we promptly partook, being right by Ghirardelli Square. (Way, way excellent suggestion, Mom.) Following this, we ate at a (pricey but classy) seafood restaurant overlooking the bay.

I must say here that nighttime in San Francisco (in August!) is ridiculously chilly. Who thought that making this area part of California was a good idea? It just gives visitors the wrong impression that it will be warm. I'm serious - I have never been so cold in the summer. (Mark Twain said, "The coldest winter I ever spent was a summer in San Francisco." I think I saw him walking in the park, huddling into himself just like me.) We waited about 45 hours for a cable car, during which time Clint callously refused to give me all his clothes. Taking the cable car back to Union Square was something we just had to do, and it was appropriately charming (as well as muscle-wrenching on starts and stops). Back on Market Street, it was about 9pm, and we admired the bustle yet again. And then our feet and shoulders cried out to us to save them, and we decided it was time to hop back on the BART out to the airport. I'll skip the next several hours, only noting that I finally closed my eyes at 7am in my own bed, hoping, in my last conscious moments, for a strain of saxophone to reach my ears.