You know how they say you can never go home again? I felt that today, in spades. Maybe it was the four hours of sleep that I had from the night before.

It's very odd to return home sometimes. San Francisco is one of the places that I consider one of my homes. You anticipate familiar landmarks and people that make your heart glad. I always take comfort when the taxi comes down over the 280 freeway split into the heart of South of Market and the condensed, magnificent skyline of the city by the Bay emerges in all its glory. Sometimes when I spy this truly splendid scene against a crisp blue sky, I expect a soundtrack to swell up with particular emphasis on the violins. It is really quite inspiring.

I have an unabashed love for this motley little city. I came here when I was 22, first settling in Berkeley where I attended my last two years of college. I started to build a life here but my heart is restless. I need to keep moving. I left here for the East Coast, first when I was 30-something. Circumstance brought me back to San Francisco a few years later, but I left again for New York two years after that. The bigger skyline had won my heart. I'm such a fickle girl.

Despite the transience, this city has a sentimental stronghold on me and I was glad for the return for these few days. It was easy to see familiar faces in the office today, most of whom did a brief double take. All of them, without exception, said, "Well, hi, nice to see you. How is New York? Gee, your hair got so long!" And, well, indeed, nice to see you too and well, hair, it does have a tendency to grow.

I got to see Hollaback Girl, albeit briefly. I was so thrilled to see my dear friend that I do believe I actually skipped (or perhaps it was a modified hop) before I grabbed her for a big hug. She's a comfortable, wonderful sight. She's a both coasts kind of girl. As they say in New York--she blends.

I took one of my groups out for lunch to thank them for their devoted work on one of my magazines. We ate at one of those trendy restaurants that dot the Embarcadero and the combination of the editor, glib and staccato, and the art director, hip and techno savvy, was delightful. We swapped stories of where we all were during the big SF quake of 1989. That brought back some memories.

It is curious, though. For all the things that should be sharp and familiar, it suddenly seemed very distinct and so long ago. It's funny, but for all the warm associations I have with this city, for the many miles of its landscape that I had trod, it seems a different place now; A place that I no longer have ownership of. To feel like a visitor is an odd sensation.

I write this now from the cozy couch of Marv and Mei Mei's upper Market Street home where I am staying during these last few days of my California sojourn. Their pet basenji, Nile, lies curled up next to me, looking up at me periodically with longing, low eyes. I do believe this intrepid hound will be my bed mate tonight. The guest room is warm and welcoming and offers a lovely view over the City. Marv fired up the grill and he's cooking up some ribs just for me. Dinner's on. I'm halfway home.