Crap, I Left my Heart in San Francisco Again.

I love San Francisco. If it weren’t for the land- and life-destroying potential of the Big One, it would just be the perfect city. It’s literate and foodie-y and odd as all get-out in places, and I’m always thrilled to stupidity to be in any part of it, even the weird bits. I personally don’t see anything wrong with deciding it’s a good day to take your television out for a walk on a busy sidewalk and using its power cord as a leash. I’m just sorry I didn’t think of it first.

So when I got a postcard in the mail letting me know that David Molesky, one of my friends from high school and the creator of one of the only “real” pieces of art I have in my home, was having an opening reception for his latest exhibit, I looked at the family schedule, got a babysitter, and called my friend Laura to see if she’d want to go…and let me crash at her place after. It worked, and I got to go!

My absolute favorites of David’s paintings are waterscapes. He doesn't paint the horizon into them, so you’re really invested in the water itself. I think I love them so much because when I swim, before I get in, I’m only looking down at the water. Sailors might care about the horizon, but swimmers don’t. It’s just about the water. David’s paintings make you feel like there’s nothing else in the world but foam and waves, and that that’s a beautiful thing. I just love them, and the gallery they were in, ArtSpace 712, was just perfect…lots of exposed brick, huge old windows, worn wood floors. Plus, there were some old high school friends there too, and wine! What could be better?

Dinner wasn’t really better, but it was pretty close. Laura is lucky enough to live in a part of the Marina where she can walk to a dozen lovely, fun restaurants. Our favorite is Mamacita. Thursday night, we ordered two margaritas, the butter-smooth guac, the mahi fish tacos with pickled red cabbage, and the chicken enchiladas. We also had a side of elote, a spicy, spicy, spicy corn dish that was absolutely worth the burn, and baked chocolate pudding that turned out to be something more like mushy brownie, and let’s face it, either of those is worth eating. It came with dulce de leche ice cream and pralines. Die, die, die.

The next morning, we were scheduled to burn off all our calories at something horrible called The Bar Method, where you can only work out if you wear black stretchy pants below your knee. I’m not joking. But we decided we had had too many calories the night before to tolerate such an elitist, fancy-pants calorie-burning activity, and besides, my yoga pants were navy blue.

So we went to a diner instead. It was awesome. It’s Bechelli’s, and if you’re ever in that part of SF, get the blueberry pancakes and the eggs, which are like the ones my grandma fries up in Kansas. Kansas eggs should be the only way eggs are allowed to be cooked, but I guess it takes all kinds. The coffee at Bechelli’s is only so-so, so-so get a Coke instead and tell Laura you did. She doesn’t believe I sometimes drink Coke in the morning, but she goes to an exercise class that has, like, a pants bouncer at the door, so, there’s that. I won’t be judged.

Before I had to go, we watched one episode of Downton Abbey. It was, and I’m totally serious here, riveting. Laura’s already done with it, and as soon as I’m done writing this, and doing laundry, and cleaning the kitchen, and grocery shopping and cooking dinner, I will be too.

Tomorrow, part two of my Bay Area Weekend Extravaganza… J