Back to San Francisco

I have no great love for San Francisco; I find it a cold, hard place with dirty streets, angry people and faded hippies. But I travel here for work, and at least this time I’m not in a 500-dollar-a-night hovel with a fridge in the centre of the room and no food service except take out flyers for a 24 hour kebab shop.

Instead, I’m at the Hilton, which has friendly and ebullient staff to bring you your room service, a grumpy front desk, and grim, grimy rooms with gloomy carpet, filthy windows and not enough light.

Also, although I’m on the 12th floor, just as last week in Newark, I have perfect hi-fidelity transmission of the dumpsters being emptied below me, as if the world demands I don’t sleep. Thanks, guys.

I’m here for one night. I got in, battered some work together, had dinner, sat in my room (because I don’t want to go out into San Francisco, as previously explained) and missed my family. Such is business travel. I’ll also be home tomorrow night, so it’s not so grievous a deprivation.

And I think the sauna may have helped. I wasn’t sore this morning, and my wife, sauna-less, was. So there is that.

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