I may be channelling more Gene Autry than Steven Tyler of Aerosmith these days. After our week in San Francisco, adjusting to the home routine has been slow. Between laundry, getting groceries, re-training pets, birthday dinners, planting garden, picking weeds, hubby's allergies and mosquitoes, I feel less like a middle-aged rocker and more of a plodding cowboy.
Don't get me wrong, I felt my age in San Francisco also. Those hills can chew you up and spit you out. And I was in great shape, or so I thought. My yoga classes really helped with breathing but cramming mega miles into one day gives you serious shin splints.
The real surprise was the city itself. I expected a more dramatic skyline, interesting architecture, more cultural diversity, less kitsch and more wine bars. I had to remind myself of history, earthquakes, proximity to Mexico and the Pan-Asian immigration and just how many tourists flood the city every day. It still did not explain the lack of wine bars.
With one exception and it was a doozie. Or a LuLu, to be more exact. Where else but in a large metropolitan city can you find an incredible restaurant and bar with a wine list longer than most first novels located in the same block as the auto mechanic who specializes in brakes. (A profitable profession in that city, no doubt)
Are you interested in knowing more? So were we and after walking over seven grueling blocks, we arrived at the fashionable hour of 4:30 p.m. Desperate for a chair, some food and a glass of wine, we begged to see the limited menu and were seated in the empty restaurant. Hi, my name is Julie. I will be your server tonight. I'll be back with the menu and the wine list.