Despite the opressive work routine I've been under this weekend, there were some high points. First, the weather, which was magnificent all weekend. We rarely experience warm evenings in San Francisco, yet this weekend there were three in a row. And each day brought close to 90 degrees of beautiful, dry heat, days on which going running was a joy, especially given how cold it's been in New York.

On Saturday evening, I took Brett out for dinner to celebrate his birthday. We didn't really have a place in mind, but since it was such a beautiful night, we thought we'd try to find seating outside in North Beach. We happened upon a tiny, authentic Italian place called Cafe Macaroni. Everything was delicious, especially the simple side dish of rigatoni, with a light cream sauce, which was cooked to a perfect al dente.

Afterwards, we went to see "Pieces of April", a scruffy, simple, funny little independent movie, at the Embarcadero Cinema. We both liked it very much, though it could have done with a shade more script development. It was never really explained why the main character, a misfit who'd obviously been a problem child, suddenly wanted to mend broken family fences. And the turning point where the Mother realizes she's been ungenerously avoiding her daughter was a little too pat. The main character's boyfriend, though, was a beauty, the gorgeous Derek Luke (I think his name is) who played the lead in "Antoine Fisher". Ah, but I'm not too good at watching love scenes right now, since it inspires too much desire.

And Sunday night, I went out for dinner with Cecilia to our favorite place, 2223. Cecilia dines there a couple of times a week, so she's always treated like a star. They know just how to garnish her salmon, and which wines she likes. We got free cocktails from her friend Didi at the bar, and the waiter pitched in a free bottle of sparkling water. I thought the noblesse oblige was supposed to flow in the opposite direction?

I've not been in the best of moods the last few weeks. The work hours have taken their toll on my spirits, and despite some great times, like last weekend's trip to DC, I've been experiencing depression again; my self-confidence is not what it was through the Summer. I haven't been dancing either in New York or San Francisco for a couple of months, largely because I haven't been feeling up to the ritual of taking my shirt off in the hot, crowded club. But last night, after dinner with Cecilia, I chanced my good mood on going out to one of my favorite venues, the occasional Sunday t-dance, Fresh @ Ruby Skye. At first, after I arrived, I was a little dismayed at the acre of writhing bodies and the loud music. I'd forgotten how improbably fine looking San Franciso club crowds are. Everywhere you walked, you brushed up against tanned, nubile, smooth men; all separated in race, age and stature, but all united in a perfect, skinny, muscular physique. After a while, I began to settle in and enjoy myself. I danced with a friend of mine, Sherwin, and was molested (as seems to happen every time I go to one of these dances) by a lithe, shirtless Asian boy. This time, though, I didn't have the self-confidence to return it, and I was obliged to gently push him off with the words "That's enough."

Another highlight of the weekend was learning that Dave, the tech lead of my project, had scored big time on Saturday night. Dave is a fat, rather unattractive, chain-smoking, badly dressed, middle-aged, divorced guy from Kansas City. Yet he carries himself well, and has a powerful personality. He can be baudy, and caustic, and was recently undressed in public for sending broadly shared emails laced with expletives. To look at, he makes you think of a harried detective in a TV cop show set in a blue collar neighborhood, with the obligatory alimony problems. He was working alone in the office this weekend, mainly to support me, and once I was through working on Saturday, he hung out in his hotel bar and apparently hit it off with a 20 year old blonde from Colombia. They went out in Times Square daring each other with silly antics. Only the fact that they spent the ensuing night together spoiled it from being almost an exact replica of the story in the recent Sophia Coppola movie "Lost in Translation".

I've become almost bicoastal for a while; a regular on flight 16 on Monday mornings to JFK, and flight 45 on Friday afternoons to SFO. And this trip was particularly comfortable, since one of the only happy side effects of having to work was that I was on expenses. I had a nice (if long) flight in, where the in-flight movie was actually something I wanted to watch, "Johnny English"; it had me in stitches at times. I'm sure it wouldn't have been half as amusing watching anywhere else except in transit, where you tend to clutch at comfort where you can get it. And there was yet another celebrity on my flight, Juliette Stephenson (I think her name is), who played the only sympathetic character in the recent bad gay movie, "Food for Love".

I stayed at the new Courtyard Marriott, the first business class hotel to take up residence in the South of Market district. The whole business travel thing is so smooth; you roll into your car rental place upon arrival, and a digital sign points you to your car - no paperwork to sign. You pull into the hotel, where a valet whisks away your car. Three days of piped flossy, saxophone music in the public areas. On the return trip, you drop off your car, which takes but an instant. The Avis employees come up to your car with a sad little trolley, which makes them look a little like San Francisco homeless people with their Safeways trollies, and print your receipt almost as soon as you've gotten your bags together.

Then the air-train to the terminal (I never quite get used to the endlessly repeating imperative announcements in a Mid-Western accent: "please put luggage trolly break to orrrrn"). A quick check in, using the first-class line, where I routinely get upgraded in these days of diminished business travel. Then a ham-and-egg omelette at the unassuming but surprisingly good North Beath Deli. The only part that's not easy is getting through the security line. I thought I'd evolved it down to a perfect routine; remove my shoes, and belt and put them in the first tray (so that I can be putting them on while waiting for my laptop and backpack to come through); empty my pockets of all metal objects, and step through the metal detector. This time the detector went off with a screech, and the official shouted "Male Assist", which is a polite euphemism for being patted and wanded for what seemes like an inordinate length of time. It turned out to be the foil packet of mutlivitamins which set it off. Have to upgrade my routine.

My flight is delayed, since the "equipment" is coming from fire torn Los Angeles. I'm certainly racking up the frequent flier miles this year. I'll be a Platinum frequent flier for the first time next year, which means a further decreased chance of not getting an upgrade. And I've at least five more flights this year; next week back to San Francisco for training, then my final return home at the end of November, closely followed by more training in first Austin, then our headquarters in the south. Finally, my big trip, which I started to book last night: Christmas in Athens. Well, actually, I'll leave Athens for London on my birthday, two days before Christmas. But Christmas in Athens sounds good, doesn't it. It's ironic that after a year where I couldn't afford a European vacation, I can finally only afford one, due to the savings of living on expenses in New Yorks for five months, in the Winter. Still, at least Athens won't be full of tourists.