i’ve checked my birth certificate; it says orange county. i’ve been to therapy searching for possible memory repression; nope, i’ve lived in southern california my entire life. then, why tell me why, is san francisco the only city in the world where i feel like i’m in my own skin?

hh and i took off for the weekend. and as always i felt like i had come home.

home to cooler temps, higher buildings.

art in every cranny.

sunlight glistening all things glossy and brilliant.

people embracing all religions and faiths.

our favorite hotel, understated and elegant.

with a spa tranquil enough to tame your toughest tension.

i think i used up all three canisters of that green tea shampoo and body wash….sorry.

goji berries, walnuts, and a tonic prepped me my go to therapist, gary reyes. i see this foot master every time i’m in the city.

this is where i fell asleep post massage. i’d like to think i reposed like a fairy princess (think aurora): lips pursed, forehead smooth, ankles crossed, toes pointed. but let’s face the facts. it was a 90 minute massage. i was most likely snoring; i woke up with drool on my pretty frette robe, my face had massage table ring around it, and my hair resembled tumbleweeds from gary’s fantastic grand finale scalp rub.

i did manage to pull it all together for a dreamy vietnamese meal with hh, where we shared bo bia and cassava corn ravioli. super romantic. i cried i was so happy.

we always talk about moving. but we’ve got such a wonderful life where we ARE. full of the BEST friends and family. if only we could transport them all up north.