If you don't like The City it's a crying pity

The sidewalk under my feet, traffic's good and loud. Oh yea, I'm a fool for The City. San Francisco never loses its charm. It's forever alluring. Baghdad by the Bay is only a hop, skip and a jump away. And I can't stay away.The annual California Newspaper Publishers Association awards ceremony was held at the Fairmont Hotel in the heart of The City last weekend. In the words of Borat, "Very nice."Of course, the drive is far from divine. The approach to the Bay Bridge turns into a parking lot on weekends, especially when the Dodgers are in town to play the Giants. But for me, it makes no difference. I treat the Bay Bridge like an ex-wife - only safe at a distance.The ferry ride from Vallejo to San Francisco is anodyne, and the bridge becomes unassuming and picturesque viewed miles away from the middle of the bay.The ferry was packed with Giants supporters, sporting SF caps and orange and black sweatshirts. I felt out of place in slacks and a dress shirt. But nobody seemed to notice. San Francisco wears its diversity on its sleeve; nothing seems out of place and everybody has a place.So, while some of my colleagues were enduring two-hour delays at the Bay Bridge after choosing to drive to San Francisco, I was sipping a bloody Mary and thumbing through the Chronicle, peaceful and tranquil.We arrived at the Ferry Building fresh and vibrant. The cool ocean breeze - scattering an unfolded newspaper across the dock as we disembarked near Embarcadero - heightened the sensation.It was early and we were in no hurry, so we took a short stroll through the streets of San Francisco en route to our favorite saloon, an old-fashioned Irish pub just off Sacramento Street called Harrington's.We chose a spot on the front patio and watched as The City rubbed the Saturday morning sleep out of its eyes. The City's different. One of the favorite modes of transportation is two feet and a heartbeat. People walk, which is quite refreshing after sitting through three red lights on the corner of Sunset and Cirby.An hour later, we hailed a taxi (a car driven by a person whose job is to take passengers where they want to go; definition provided for Roseville residents) and moments later we hopped out in front of the Fairmont.The awards ceremony was memorable - finishing first never loses its luster. We celebrated with a cold Corona at the hotel bar and made dinner plans. A wily member of the journalistic entourage suggested Fisherman's Grotto on the wharf.By the time I finished eating my bountiful bowl of crab cioppino - covered in marinara sauce from fingertip to elbow - we were ready for an after-dinner drink. A trip to the Top of the Mark at the Mark Hopkins Hotel high atop a hill with a magnificent view of The City was the perfect place to digest dinner.My one mistake on the trip was deciding a celebratory cigar was in order. The waitress at the Top of the Mark said we could find a tobacco shop within walking distance, four or five blocks away.She was right, it was within walking distance - for a mountain goat. A 3,000-foot drop in elevation, two zip codes and two taxi rides later, we found a shop. After all that, darn right I enjoyed my cigar.Just before we were ready to turn in, San Francisco fog engulfed the night. The rows of high-rise buildings, just moments earlier towering above the rolling hills, dissolved into one-story structures. The city lights dulled as if controlled by a dimmer switch.San Francisco, magical and magnificent; The City lights turn my blues into gold.