Lake Merced, which has a circumference of about 4.5 miles, is popular for walking, running, biking, golfing, shooting skeet, and for sculling. Dozens of young crews were out this morning, warming up or running on the grass, chatting and laughing with one another, or practicing on the water. It was a cool day and the wind off the ocean made it even colder. Of course, this didn’t stop anyone, including us, from going through their Saturday routines.

Went to a Barcelona replica restaurant last night with a genuine Madrid waiter who knew his sherries. “I drink a bottle every night.” So, of course, we had a bottle of sherry, an amontillado called odoroso which I began to call doloroso, along with olives, almonds, cheeses, bread, calamari and black rice, patatas bravas, and meatballs that were more salmon than chorizo, ending with flan, French press coffee, and very full stomachs. I had read the reviews of the restaurant on yelp before we went. Some people loved it, and others hated it. The threesome at the table next to us were debating about where to retire, and the leading place seemed to have a beach, swimming pool, maid service, and all the amenities. It made me smile ruefully. With the kind of money we blew on our meal, we’ll be retiring in poverty.

Met an old drugged-out hippie on Haight who stopped us briefly and then smiled scornfully at us. I felt like telling him that the joke had been old forty years ago and was absurd now, but didn’t bother. He was too far gone. One enterprising employee of the Escape from New York Pizza shop, also on Haight, advertises the place on the back of his calf. After washing down the sidewalk in front and scrubbing off the dried shit, he paused long enough for me to get this picture as he returned inside with his bucket and brush. First class work.

In most public beaches and parks, dogs are supposed to be leashed in San Francisco, but hardly anyone bothers. A popular spot for dog walkers, especially those who do it for a living, are the sandy expanses of Fort Funston which look across the sea toward Marin on the far side. Funston is one of a series of forts that were used to protect San Francisco from invasion, but, like the others, was long ago converted to public parks. Though trammeled by thousands of people each day, the beach below the fort is a fun place to take your dog to gambol at the edge of the water. It is also a dramatically beautiful if you can ignore the squalor.

Marin gets its water supply from a number of reservoirs, one of which is Alpine Lake several miles beyond Fairfax. Just past the dam (on the highway that connections Fairfax with Bolinas) is a trail that goes up through Cataract Canyon to Laurel Dell. Basically, it’s a steep climb for a couple of miles along a stream and series of very beautiful waterfalls that empty into the lake. It was cool and misty today, the trail a bit wet, and the waterfalls were flowing abundantly. The climb gets one’s blood moving rather rapidly but the hike is pretty and very popular.

Saw this U R GOD license plate on Cortland near the Liberty Cafe and had to get a photo. I asked the guy who pulled up behind it in his boxy Honda Element to pose beside it, but he immediately pointed to a guy feeding the meter (whom I had somehow missed) and asked, “Why not get the owner to pose?” Luckily, the owner’s significant other also appeared, so I got a photo of both of them. Very charming couple.

Afterward, the guy whom I had talked with originally showed up and asked whether I had gotten a photo. I said I had.

“Weird license plate,” he said.

“You’re not a mystic? You don’t know what it means?”

“No,” he said scornfully.

Rubbing salt in his wound, I said, “I instantly knew what it meant.”

He shrugged, and then said he was off to get a car wash.

It was a humorous encounter. Only on one coast or the other would people be so open and generous with their time.

The tops of the hills above Tiburon are lands held in trust by the city. The citizens elected to pay more taxes to keep them from being developed. Originally, they were for riding horses. Now anyone can walk up there, if you can find the access points. Near the stairs where my sister and I entered the trail, an enterprising citizen had gotten the city to post no parking signs (your car will be towed). I suppose, the people with multi-million dollar homes adjoining the land are nervous about who may decide to walk there. Very beautiful though. I suppose I shouldn’t even mention it for fear the wrong sort may find it.

Drove across the city and over the bridge in the fog again (not losing my way once this time) and then along the coast to Stinson Beach where the fog was so heavy at times that the hairpin turns seemed to come out of nowhere. I suppose I should have slowed down. I then continued to Point Reyes, and at the edge of the park took a couple of trails, one into the valley, which ended in sucky mud, and a second on the other side of the road that led up an inclined trail onto the mountain. The problem with the second trail was that the incline never stopped. I felt like Sisyphus pushing his rock up the mountain. I did see a bobcat, though. It leaped from a tree and then scampered up the trail in front of me. My second bobcat. None of my brother coyotes, though.

At the bottom of the trail, I ran into two Aussies with dogs who said they had gone as far as 11 miles inland, but couldn’t today, because one of their dogs was lame. The implication was that I had wussed out because I hadn’t made it to the first overlook. I couldn’t have agreed with them more.

Instead of going back to Stinson Beach, I drove to Olema and then through San Anselmo to 101. Traffic wasn’t really bad until I got back to the city. It seemed that everyone and his brother wanted to hang out in Golden Gate Park, so my method of avoiding the big hills with rental car with the bald tires didn’t work out so well. Ravenous now, I headed to Eric’s and had their famous sesame beef. The thing about Eric’s is that you can have their specials only once. The tastes are so distinctively raw that you never want to have the dish twice. The price is right, though, you can have brown rice, and the service is beyond excellent. All in all, a very pleasant morning.

Zuni has been around for such a long time that not everyone still thinks it’s a great restaurant, but, since I’m only a casual visitor to San Francisco (and my palate isn’t jaded), I continue to think their Caesar salad, crusty breads, wines by the glass, and thin crust pizzas are the best ever. The Caesar has a fresh garlicky taste unmatched by anyone’s and the wines are always well chosen. The servers are knowledgeable and the crowd is laid back and friendly.

Not wanting to wait for a table, I sat at one of the tables in the bar, but moved twice to avoid having to sit next to anyone. It offended one pair of diners, though I could hardly see why. They were doing more texting than talking or eating. My Gamay (one of those unbright, dull, and blemished ones) went perfectly with everything I had. I couldn’t have been more satisfied.

On the way out, I chatted with a woman I had noticed editing something at the bar. Between bouts of editing, she sipped her wine, stared off into space, and moved her bag on the floor. Naturally, she was a writer and an unpublished one at that. This was going to be her year, she said. In her cowboy boots, jeans, and un-made-up face, she had lots of character (no pun intended) and was a treat to talk with. I hope she makes it. Someone has to.