Since my love for San Francisco knows no bounds nor limits, I wanted to be up as early as I could. You know how this story ends up, yes? I set the alarm for nine o’clock. I got up, I took a shower…then it was suddenly eleven and I was back in bed with a towel draped over myself. Things like that happen far too often to me. I’m just not meant for the mornings. I’m all about the afternoon. If my day could begin around three, I’d be perfectly content. I’d rise around eleven and luxuriously get ready for the day and then head out. Life would be amazing.

I had to redo my hair completely, which was annoying since it had been perfect earlier, but I was soon ready for the day in my new favorite shirt. Prepare yourself:

I would like to be cremated in my Grumpy Cat shirt. Thank you very much. I’ll haunt you if you don’t make it happen. My death requirements are really quite extensive. I  should do a post on my will wishes. That should make for excellent reading. I love creepy things like that.

My plan for the day was to get a haircut. I have way too much hair right now. I can’t style it because it’s too heavy and falls within an hour. This is what I wanted:

MANDATORY ZAYN [one direction] INTERLUDE:

DID YOU DANCE, READER? SOMEBODY FETCH ME A CIGARETTE!

But then I remembered that I’m #totespoor. I came to California instead of Paris so that I could save money. WHAT A FOOL I WAS! California has proven to cost me much more than Paris ever did. In the end, I suppose they probably would have cost the same, with airfare and all, but sweet Krishna. I’m not too bothered, though, I had a great time, and I should have it paid off by year’s end. I already have my next three trips in mind. I’m not meant to be a homebody.

There was no Internet connection at all to help me prepare for my day, so I bundled up as if it were mid-winter and hurried on my way to the post office. I had a plethora of things that wouldn’t be allowed on the plane, so I decided to ship them off to the homestead. I grabbed a box, which turned out not to be one of those wonderful flat-rate boxes (even though it looks IDENTICAL), but no matter.

From there, I went up to my beloved Union Street and fell in love all over again. It’s my darling. It’s my dearest. Oh, my love knows no limit! I could spend all day on Union Street, poking in the shops and cafes and theater. I stopped by a chocolate shop that had such a variety that I was overwhelmed. I purchased a few and then stopped by a charming place called Rose’s Cafe for lunch.

It was perfect. Everything was wonderful. I had lavender lemonade that was so delicious I nearly passed out. The vegetable soup was screaming with flavor. The caprese salad was excellent, except for the pesto, that tasted unfortunate — hardly any basil flavor. Do you love basil as much as me? I’d put it in anything. The only person who might be more passionate about basil is Giada.

Did you see when she cooked with Ina on Barefoot Contessa this weekend. My mind went numb with glee. Ina wore a cape! A CAPE!

I had a delightful time here and planned out my next meal. I wanted a California picnic — like when Ina went to Napa. I apologize in advance for what’s about to happen.

THIS IS WHAT MY DREAMS LOOK LIKE:

I MEAN, can you imagine? I’d die. I’d just drop dead.

This is what I look like when I sample things at most bakeries:

This is me when people compliment my fashion or my sense of humor or my writing:

And this is me when I’m out in public:

I’m done now, I promise! (*fingers crossed*)

So, I decided upon a picnic dinner thinking it would save me money. You know how that went, yes? It did not save me money. I wanted a good California wine and good California cheese and good sourdough bread and some good pastries. How bad could that be?

I went up to La Boulange and grabbed one of their truly stunning lemon tarts. They’re gorgeous. I wonder how they cut them so perfectly? I’ve never tried making my lemon tarts in a rectangle tart pan. Putting it on my to-do list, though.

I dropped off my tart and chocolates at the hotel and then set out exploring!

The first thing I did was climb Lombard street. You read that right, CLIMB! I swear, it was a forty-five degree incline. Children were crawling. Others had passed out. I pulled myself past corpses of the fallen. It was like mounting Everest! The view from the top was worth it.

Oh, San Francisco. I love you. You’re wondrous. NEVER MAKE ME LEAVE YOU.

I thought I’d take the trolley car down to Chinatown, but for some reason this trolley charged SIX DOLLARS! Oh no you didn’t, bitch! So I walked, and I had a much better time because I again got to sing this song (do you know all the words, yet?):

I’m getting so good at it. It’s scary. I’m going to audition on The X Factor just so that you can all hear me sing it. You’ll weep.

On the way to Chinatown I came upon this shop and giggled and giggled.

Then suddenly I was in Chinatown and it’s like I was in a totally different city. It was bizarre. I had a lovely time looking at all the bok choy and lychees for sale. I hate lychees. Maybe I just had a bad one? It was awful.

And then all of a sudden I saw a shop that advertised the best espresso in town. Of course I went in. I looked around. Everybody was suddenly Italian. I WAS IN LITTLE ITALY! I didn’t know this place existed and I was so freaking excited. I love Italian food and looking at Italian people and I don’t speak much Italian, but I love Italian, too! The espresso was pretty good and the shop has been operated by the same family since 1932!

I poked into the church because I love poking into churches. I’m not religious whatsoever, but I’m a sucker for a cathedral. It was stunning.

I never wanted to leave Little Italy. I had a slice of pizza. It was amazing. Sadly, I had to skedaddle — good word, that, skedaddle. Let’s say it together: one…two…three…SKEDADDLE! Ahh, lovely. The Ferry Building closes at a silly early time, so I had to rush down there to buy the things for my picnic.

I hurried by The Stinking Rose, where they season their garlic with food.

I darted through the heart of Chinatown.

I curiously looked at the baked goods for sale, thought about waiting in line, but it was long and not moving, so I walked and walked until I was at the market.

Originally, I had intended to buy a small bottle of a California wine, but was persuaded to buy a large bottle of French wine. Oh well, how bad could that be!? I bought a cheese platter that had several varieties and salted almonds (I’m CRAZY about salted almonds), peaches, and crackers with it. I bought a small baguette at Acme bread, allegedly the best bakery in town, and then with all my purchases in tow, decided to “BEAT MY FEET UP AND DOWN MARKET STREET!” Did you get it? Do I really have to play the song for you again?

It never gets old, does it?

Oh, I loved Market Street. You could find anything you could ever want there. I stopped by a Japanese dollar store where most things were $1.50. I saw this wall and wept:

I wanted to buy them all, but I had no more room in my bag or box. I’ll go back for them all someday.

I also saw this:

I had no desire to buy them. I buy expensive underwear. Not cheap things. Never disposable things! NEVER!

Then I stopped by a Japanese sweet shop that was very confusing for me. I didn’t know what any of it was and there was talk of bean paste. BEAN PASTE? I had the lovely shop assistant pick out some things that she liked for me. I just adore shopping at Japanese shops. They bow and thank you and make you feel so damn appreciated. I love them.

I found the Nespresso shop on my way back and stopped in for an espresso and a piece of opera cake. I love how seriously Nespresso takes themselves. It’s just espresso, after all, but they’ve built up this massive allure. They make it feel like a secret club. Their coffee is excellent, I can’t deny that.

The waiter kept mumbling and smiling and I thought he was a bit off, but then I realized that he was madly in love with me. This happens too much, reader. I enjoyed my cake and looked at the well dressed people parade past. Karl was right, you really cannot go wrong with dark wash jeans and a white shirt.

AGH! I just love San Francisco, I can’t get over it.

The bumbling waiter brought me my check and when I told him that he hadn’t put the opera cake on the bill, he just winked and said, “You don’t need to worry about that.”

Was I supposed to sleep with him?

I just gave him a nice tip. It was awfully flattering.

I made my way back up to the hotel and had my picnic on the roof.

It was #FOOLPROOF! I had far too much food, but that didn’t stop me from eating ALL of it. The cheese platter was interesting. Two were good, one was meh. The peach was divine. The almonds were wonderful. I gorged on the bread. The tart was baked by an angel. The wine was delicious — I didn’t drink the entire bottle…(I did…)

I watched the sun set over my beloved city and sighed that I would be leaving it tomorrow afternoon. Why didn’t I ever know that this wonderful place existed? I love it so.

 

Had to.