I checked into my new hotel yesterday after lunch, and my room was even larger than at my previous hotel. I only just had time to quickly unpack, though, before dashing out to meet a friend to go for a hike in Rock Creek Park. It was the tail end of a gorgeous Fall day, and the sun was banking behind whitish clouds near the horizon dimming somewhat the colors of the leaves. But it was still pleasant to trample through the crunchy foliage. It was hard to believe we were still inside the city, it was so quiet.

Towards evening, it was extremely odd to be sitting outside at Starbucks in Dupont Circle just wearing a t-shirt while inside they were playing Silent Night by Frank Sinatra. The weather here, at least until this morning, has not been at all seasonal.

I suppose some people, looking at me there at Starbucks, might think that I was being self-consciously intellectual, what with my writing in a notebook, and reading "Franny and Zooey" by Salinger. The book was recommended to me by my therapist. I'd actually read it before, when I was in my early twenties, but I didn't recall that it was such a good, fascinating story. I'm not altogether certain, however, why my therapist recommended it. All of the characters are pretty nutty; I do hope she's not trying to let me down gently.

I soon finished the book, and, in the mood I was in then, I felt that it was something brilliant and thought provoking. But I still couldn't figure out what my therapist was trying to tell me. So I decided to go and get my hair cut.

When I came out of the hairdressers, dusk had set in, and the blue-purple sky had streaks of red in it behind the trees, whose naked branches were completely still and in silouhette. It was the time of evening when the starlings come screeching home to rest in those same trees. The air was warm, and once again I felt a strong desire do make this experience permanent and move here. Trouble is and always will be that I love San Francisco too, and, unfortunately, I can't live in two places at once.

I've been positively stuffing myself since I got here; a fancy meal every single evening. Last night I ate with Chris, a reporter friend, at a quite posh place called the Oval Room. The food, though, wasn't as good as the place I ate my first night here, at Blackies. I guess we didn't rave adequately to the waiter last night, because, before long, the manager came over with a concerned look to his face and tendered a plate of cookies.

I'll skip over the daytime today, since it involved only sitting in a classroom in our office in Maryland, in a city which today, under a greasy white sky, seemed even uglier than usual - nothing but an endless Blockbusterplex of strip-malls. I had lunch in a burrito chain restaurant in a drab shopping mall, feeling, for the first time on this trip, rather down.

I soldiered through, however, and my spirits were lifted by browsing through today's English soccer results, while pretending to listen to the facilitator, to find my team, Newcastle United, had won by four goals to one. After class was over, I ventured even deeper into the hinterlands, to Frederick, home of one of the main army bases conducting research into anti-biological warfare, and also of my ex boyfriend Shawn.

Another big meal, this time in a homely Italian place. You wouldn't necessarily think that an old, working class town like Frederick could come up with wonderful Italian food in a graceful setting. But our meal was excellent. You could see the Italian mama hovering around in a nice cardigan in the kitchen while her husband cooked, and her two tall, long-legged young daughters, who were dressed in a strangely Quakerish style (white blouses fastened at the neck, and black ankle-length skirts) served us enormous plates of pasta with sausage, scallops, prawns and sturgeon.

Shawn and I talked about how much or how little both of us had changed since we first met, over twelve years ago. We decided we were both wiser, but, in terms of how we think about relationships, we've moved in opposite directions. He's now a romantic, while I'm not a big believer in the existence of Mr Rights. I guess if we'd met somewhere in the middle of these twelve years, maybe we'd have been right for each other at that time.