scribble, scribble, scribble…

(Thanks, Jon.)

My wife notes that, yes, our plane from Dallas-Fort Worth to SFO got hit by lightning. Yes, we were descending through a dark gray mass of cloud, already a bit on edge, and suddenly a golden ball of brightness exploded just off the right wing (that is to say, like, 30 meters directly out my window) and there was a sound like a gunshot. It could never happen to me again, and I’d be pretty cool with that.

…although it is all that pretty. Kelly had never been and didn’t believe me when I told her it was, but after two-ish days, she’s a convert. Oh, I think New York still holds place of primacy in her heart of hearts—and it probably does in mine, too, maybe—but now that she’s done the cable cars and Lombard Street and the bridges and the Haight and the Mexican food, I believe she gets it. Pictures to come later this week.

On Friday, we went to Amoeba Music, where I finally picked up the latest U2 CD single (or one version of it, anyway); ate in North Beach with a couple of friends who are fellow former NYCers; and drank at Vesuvio with the io9 crowd. We got up reasonably early on Saturday (it helped that the TV in our hotel room was broken, and would only show the tiny picture-in-picture on the giant screen, giving us nothing to do but sleep, because we were too tired for any activity more, uh, active, like reading) and trucked down to the Ferry Building for the farmer’s market, which had nothing on Madison’s but was still a delight. We thought Dave Eggers was in line just ahead of us for coffee, interviewing a band—but it turns out we just think any weird-looking dude in the Bay Area is Dave Eggers, and it was just these guys, whose drummer really looks more like Malcolm Gladwell’s second cousin, once I gave it some more thought.

After more walking through Chinatown and lunch there to get out of the rain, then a visit to Fisherman’s Wharf and the sad discovery that all the Alcatraz tours were sold out (which saved us, like, $80, so), we broke for a beer, cable-carred it back to the hotel (the Marriott Union Square, at $90 a night, thanks to my wife’s Shatner-esque Priceline powers), and then headed to the Mission to see Chris at Borderlands Books and enjoy the aforementioned burrito. Actually, Kelly had nachos, which she described as having “ruined her for all other nachos everywhere.” They were really good.

That is the good news. More somber stuff tomorrow, regarding my grandma, who lives near Sacramento, and whom we went to California to visit in the first place. (Not that somber, though, so don’t worry.)

Addendum: I forgot to mention Eileen, who has so thoroughly claimed San Francisco as her own that it prompted Kelly to ask at one point, “Are you sad I’m not Eileen?” (Note: I was not, although at times it would have been fun to have Eileen there. At other times, it would have been much less romantic, however.) Not only did Eileen answer questions for us via text in a timely fashion, she also introduced me long ago to ChaCha, which answered another question for us in a timely fashion (namely, where to find the fortune cookie factory). Big ups are directed at Eileen.