My last two posts were written under intense pressure: The first I typed and posted without proof reading because I was borrowing a stranger’s laptop and the second was thrown up against a ticking clock by a brain that was needing it’s first cocktail after a very long day of walking and eating and shopping and art gallery-ing. I’m home now and though I love to be here with my family and snuggling into my own bed, I have a melancholic hangover that I always get after returning from San Francisco. There is something indescribably magical about San Francisco, a world class city as spectacular as Paris.

There were too many fun-filled moments in my most fantastic girls-only weekend adventure to enumerate here. But the brisk walk in the rain on Saturday—specifically the two-and-a-half miles along a dirt path to the Golden Gate bridge—was the stunner. There was very little noise except for our heavy boots against the wet dirt, the breathy moan of a fog horn and the incessant cries of seagulls. Every now and again, our laughter punctuated and even added to the serenity of the event. It was breathtaking. It nearly brought me to tears. Or maybe the overwhelming emotion I felt was due to the fact that my suede boots had filled with water, my jeans were wet nearly up to my knees and I was soaked on the entire right half of my body unprotected by a shared umbrella. (What can I say? A girl from San Diego is hardly prepared for long walks in the rain. But still, she walks in the rain.)

It was an astounding experience that I do not have the skill to capture with either words or camera. This is the best I could do.