The first time I went to San Francisco, it was in another life. Let me explain. Somewhat. I had been in Los Angeles, giving a talk at the local public television station about the work I was doing to caption television programs for deaf audiences. The station was housed in a series of bungalows in what had been the one-time Chaplin Studios. Between that bit of Old Hollywood lore and the fact that I was booked at the fabled pre-Belushi Chateau Marmont where Garbo used to stay, well.... Work done, I took a quick flight to San Francisco to stay for a few days with George, a friend who’d moved there from Boston. To my great regret, I was not the perfect houseguest on that visit. Not the perfect traveler, either. I didn’t see the Golden Gate Bridge or Chinatown or much of anything, actually. (George took this photo in Golden Gate Park, the one spot I did visit.) Twenty-five years later, on my next trip to the city, I arrived a different person. I not only saw the bridge, I ran across it. Twice. And wept with happiness and gratitude.