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    In San Francisco, a lot of people ("folks"?) are "very excited" about something, and an awful lot of things are "(super) awesome". But San Franciscans are truly nice, though. Honestly friendly. None of that fake "hey-how-you-doing/I-wont-listen-to-your-reply" kind of thing. At 8 a.m. on my second Tuesday, still incapable of overcoming jet-lag, I sat idle in a French-inspired breakfast and lunch eatery, the first place on my US trip thus far to not have mega-sized - and sadly tasteless- food portions.

    At La Boulange, exotic (to me) breakfeast-meeting parties came and went. Everything about the place was true to its sought-after imagined French flair (because essential Frenchness is often only imagined). Meaning, everything was super-undersized and prohibitively expensive. Oh, and organic - of course. I seemed to have come across the opposite extreme of the likes of Dottie's, where you got a flying-saucer of a muffin for $2.50. Aliens could fit on that thing. Naturally I had had it to go, not being able at all to expand my otherwise accommodating stomach after the frittata and bacon side-order. I should have thought that one through.

    To my right, an elegantly casual 6'2 California blonde sat talking to two flawlessly aging ladies, surely about some great venture about to happen. He stated numerous times that "anything you [they] need, I'm here to help get things started". As I slid onto the faux-rustic bench opposite him, next to the silver foxes, his chronically nervous eyes caught the low cut of my summery turquoise blouse. (I had packed in high hopes.) His tenseness now hit a new notch, and his knee began to bounce beneath the too-small table, clearly betraying an escapist tendency. Yet he remained unfazed in demeanor, cooly continuing the conversation with that entrepreneurial, go-to edge that everyone in the Bay Area seemed to possess in abundance. I seem to have arrived just at the end of what had surely been a highly San Franciscan rendezvous.
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