I'm back from spending a weekend in Paradise; or at least the closest approximation to be found in the continental United States. San Francisco was a jewel this weekend, with perfect weather throughout. Cloudless, clear blue skies, a soft breeze, temperatures between 65 and 80 with no humidity. And the place is looking good. I visited the newly renovated Ferry Building on Saturday. It's the centerpiece of the long-term development of the Embarcadero, which is finally complete. It holds the Farmers Market on weekends, and permanent, high-priced local market stores inside; places where you can buy $25 bottles of olive oil from Central Valley farms.

Later that day, I went for one of my favorite runs along the Embarcadero and through Fisherman's Wharf to the fishing quay, and thought once again how could I possibly ever think of leaving this beautiful place. And on Sunday, my run took me through the Marina, again, another impossibly beautiful place in this stunning weather.

I usually avoid writing my journal on the trip home. In fact, more than once, I've written a journal entry, and then reread it once home and immediately deleted it without posting it. The reason is that returning from a trip always fills me with all kinds of strange ideas and intentions. And they're important, to me at least, since it provides grounds for change. But the unformed ideas don't make for good reading, since they're often quite hard on myself, and way too introspective. This trip is no different. But I'm going to stick to just the facts this time.

The facts are that I had a perfectly nice weekend - rather leisurely. Unlike my last trip here, I didn't run around breathlessly from one engagement to the next. I purposely underbooked myself so that I could take it easy. I was only here two full days, yet it seemed longer, because of my uncrowded schedule. I did all the things I love to do; lots of time sitting in downtown cafes with the New York Times, a haircut from my friend Terry, went out dancing on Saturday night and even played pool (won two rather chaotic games on a sloping pool table at the Stud), went to movie and dinner with Brett ("Pirates of the Caribbean", which left me unmoved despite the enormously impressive talents of Johnny Depp), and went to the Musuem of Modern Art to see the huge Chagall exhibition (about half way through, I found myself unable to take in any more, bringing to mind one of the very few Shakespeare quotes I've retained: "They are as sick that surfeit with too much as suffice with too little.") So the ingredients were there for a great weekend. But I didn't have one for some reason. Maybe I was having my period or something, but I just didn't get much pleasure from any of this. Hopefully, my joie-de-vivre will return for next weekend, when I'm going to Provincetown with my new New York friend, C.

You remember the stewardess from my last flight, who asked me if I liked my coffee black, like my women? Well she's on this flight too, but this time she's ignored me in favor of a much more luminous passenger, who's sitting in the row ahead of mine, the legendary Santana, who goes mainly by his last name, which is fortunate since I can't remember his first. For half an hour she sat literally at his knees in a posture of supplication, hands clasped as if praying, listening to his stories. Of course you can't help but think that Mr Santana was returning her interest because of her formidable good looks. I suppose celebrity has its good points.

The flight has been quite enjoyable. I sat next to a very well-dressed, well-groomed gay man of about my age, who seemed to know the stewardesses well. We got talking because it he recognized Santana first. Okay, I'll admit, I wouldn't have known Santa from Adam, though I had guessed he might have been somebody famous because of his funky black shirt, beret and sun glasses. Anyway, I got talking to my neighbor, and it turned out that he, like me, is bi-coastal right now, spending some time in New York, some in San Francisco. After a while, I sheepishly asked him what he did that he could hold apartments in both cities. He turned out to be (and I should have realized this) a high-level flight attendant for American. It was only then that I noticed that one of his fancy socks had a huge rip in it. But he was fun to talk to, and he told me all the best places to go in Provincetown.

Mind, I had my celebity moment at the aiport. My car service was late so they told me to wait outside for the only car they could quickly draft into service. On my way outside, I got tangled with a businessmans's luggage. It was both our faults, and I apologized, while he looked at me with contempt before steaming on. "Asshole" I yelled at him (I'm not proud of it), which soon brought him steaming back. Oh dear, I thought, he's going to hit me. He yelled something in my face before steaming off again, at which point I yelled "loser", none of which made me feel particularly noble. But there was my huge, white, stretch limo pulling up in front of the crowds, making me feel like a star.

Now I'm on the way home in my stretch, and the driver has abandoned the crowded rush-hour freeways for the streets of Queens. The air-conditioning is on the blink, so I've the windows wound down, and kids in passing cars crane to stare in, hoping that I'm somebody famous. Santana perhaps. Probably not - they won't have heard of him.