This past weekend I was in San Francisco for a friend's wedding, and being back was bittersweet. Bitter (slightly) over the fact that I ever moved away, and sweet because the city has retained every bit of wonder and beauty that I remember. I hesitate to use the word magical, but how else to describe a place where fog clouds, alive and mysterious, float down streets and through tree branches, accompanied by the slow moan of a foghorn coming from the bay in the distance? Your senses are filled with smells of jasmine, magnolia, and in the Presidio - musky, minty eucalyptus. You can sit for twenty minutes at a sidewalk boulangerie, as I did when writing this post, wrapped in a thick scarf one minute, then when the sun breaks through the mist, remove your sweater and feel the hot California sun on your arms. My brother George is the last birch hill kid to live in San Francisco, and now he, like his big sisters, is making the trek cross country tomorrow. There is no doubt in my mind that I'll continue to visit San Francisco throughout my life. It's truly a one-of-a-kind place.