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After NYC, SF is the most densely populated city in the US.  About 750,000 are packed into approximately 47 square miles. The weather is chilly—drizzly if you are lucky— and the sea rules the land. Walking down wide Market Street the plane trees, archictectural details on the street lamps and the green lacquered kiosks will remind you of Paris. The mahogany Golden Gate Bridge squats over the narrow neck of the bay and running over to Sausalito on the GG is earsplitting with the speeding trucks and buses.  Returning to the SF side and jogging back down to Crissy Park and along the Embarcadero, the ears recover. Pier 23 (name of restaurant—there is no actual Pier 23)  is empty of people but warm and dry— cold local beer and fish tacos reward a 7 mile run. Some places are tough to leave like Istanbul and Paris but the left brain of logic and practicality gurantees we make it to the airport and return home.  But here  something mysterious and substantial anethetizes reason.  The right part of my brain—the part that loves unicorns and dreams—- overides the left, and I miss my flight back.  Twice.