San Francisco always feels like home. Growing up in the east bay it was nothing to cross the bay bridge and spend a day at the wharf or walking Golden Gate Park. Great food, too. My husband and I often go to the city for a long weekend just to get out of the central valley heat and smell the coastal air. I always make the reservation: favorite hotel, highest floor. I like the view. There is a wonderful sense of anonymity in a busy city that is a tonic for people like me. Watching, absorbing, processing, imagining. Weeks ago such a trip was in order. Favorite hotel, fourteenth floor, bedroom window facing the alley side of an old brownstone with bay windows. The first morning after arriving I was up early. I made some coffee and decided to catch the morning sun as it pushed through the window. Across the way, in the brownstone, I was met with two sights. Just scenes of life, that's all. At eye level, in a bay window, a couple in the throes of passionate lovemaking. Real intense, clinging to the drapery type stuff. Five floors down, a man was sitting on the toilet. The bathroom window was open and on the ledge teetered a small white fan. He was in his underwear smoking a joint and very skillfully exhaling in front of the fan. Apparently he thought that the person/people on the other side of the door didn't know what he was doing. The second morning, my husband was up before I was. As he handed me a cup of coffee, I asked him if there was anything interesting to see from the window. He said I didn't miss much...just the same as yesterday. I headed for the window.