Going going, Back back, to Cali cali.

New England winters tend to make me stir crazy. Sure they are beautiful, but they're cold, they're long, and I don't ski. Going to bars wearing everything but an actual snowsuit became tiring. Self-indulgence moved to the top of my priorities. I desperately needed a change of pace and a change of scene.


I needed a vacation.


My frigid east coast confines combined with two straight months of teaching 12 year-olds necessitated some Me-time. I checked flights and landed a bargain round trip ticket to San Francisco. It was high time I came back to the sunny state of California, so I booked ten long days on the west coast. That same week, I received my tax returns just in time to treat them like Monopoly money.

Out in San Francisco, Nate lives with two brothers, Chris and Eric. Chris works at Nate's company, which is how Nate got a such a cushy living situation. With minimal consult to the fraternal order, I once again became their fourth housemate, foisting myself on their deceptively comfortable couch. The TV room, which I subsequently turned into a studio apartment, is a holdover from the previous owners, the brothers' grandparents. Dozens of faded, off-color photos adorn the dark wood-paneled walls and obscure hardcover books sit untouched on the dusty bookcase, offset by the current inhabitants' DVD collection ranging from 'Lost in Translation' to 'Slippin: Ten years with the Bloods'.  I' m sure once they heard of my return to their couch, and lives in general,  both were overjoyed beyond words.

Seeing as my orientation was last year, the second go-around had to be different. I already saw the chilling majesty of Alcatrez, experienced the devastating boredom of Ghiardelli Square, dined at In-N-Out Burger,  and strolled through the indescribable Castro.


Our extensive and elaborate plan for round two?

We would eat and we would drink.


While I was across the continental 48 educating children, Nate discovered a culinary bucket list called the Big Eat Top 100 places to eat & drink in SF before you die, go broke, or perhaps both. This complemented our strategy quite well, so with debit cards in hand we gleefully set off to trudge, cab, and train our way in search of the comfort food eucharist.


I touched down at SFO an hour earlier than expected on Thursday thanks to a strong tailwind and---most likely---physically fit passengers. With Nate at work, I had no rush to get into the city so I hopped on the BART and meandered my way downtown. The Himalayas that are the streets of San Francisco seemed more manageable this time around. It probably helped that I wasn't carrying two bottles of liquor in my bag on my second sojourn. The California sun warmed my face as I walked through Chinatown to Nate's office building. I welcomed the vitamin-D after what seemed like monsoon season on the east coast.


The next day Nate begrudgingly had to be at work so I, groggy and hungover, rolled off the couch, made some breakfast, and squinted at the bay from the back deck. This is what June usually looks like, I thought.

Preparations were made for a mellow day of rehydration and March Madness games, but a friend texted me that she decided it was far too nice to be working.


"Wanna go to the beach?" she asked.

Advantage: California.


The next ten days would be flooded by sun, fraught with headaches and cotton mouth, spent visiting hole-in-the-wall eateries, and hanging out with an old friend.



Hijinks ensued.