Is anything more unique to us humans than wondering where we got off track in life and how to fix it? Longing for days gone by? Wishing we could recapture what we once took for granted?

The following excerpts from 29 Bottles, which I’ve edited for context and flow (and to omit spoilers), pose these questions. As “cotagonist” Fianna strolls north on the Embarcadero, from San Francisco’s Market Street to Pier 39, she ponders the effects of her and Martin’s ongoing divorce proceedings on their daughter Ali, and seeks a path to a better place for all three of them.

And what’s a scene without visual aids? The first photo below is of the Exploratorium’s listening dishes. The second portrays a contingent of the City’s beloved sea lions “sittin’ on the dock of the Bay.”

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Reaching the bay, I turned on the Embarcadero and passed the Ferry Building, where brightly colored flags and awnings beckoned early birds to the Saturday Farmers Market. My feelings about the impact of the divorce Martin and I are going through on Ali are conflicting, to put it mildly. On one hand, our daughter’s the portrait of resiliency: mature beyond her years and able to take her parents with a grain – or pillar – of salt. When Ali and I met to jog last week, she quickly put me in my place with an arched eyebrow when I asked her why she assumed I’d been attacking Martin the night before, not vice-versa.

On the other hand, Ali flashes pain and longing, betraying her cool façade and telling me her well-being is at risk because of the two idiots she got for parents. Like the day we told her we were separating: she played it cool with a shrug and a nod, but blinked to hold back tears. If I’m being honest, part of me wants to reconcile with Martin for Ali’s sake – maybe the worst reason in the book to try to patch a broken relationship. I sighed. Idling behind the ferry slips, I resolved not to let my emotions drive decisions that would produce bad outcomes for us all.

Heading up the Embarcadero, I quickened my pace enough to raise my heart rate. At the Exploratorium, I recalled the first time I’d taken Ali to the museum, in its previous location. She was three or four. As a kid, Ali was a purposeful maelstrom of curiosity: she sprinted and whirled from one exhibit to another, throwing herself into understanding their tricks. The “whispering dishes,” acoustic mirrors set fifty feet apart that let us hear each other whisper into them despite the distance and noisy crowds between us, captivated and astounded her.

Ali’s last visit to the Exploratorium was here, soon after its relocation to Pier 15. Knowing she was jaded by ten pains me. It’s true, though – Martin and I were fighting by then, and the effects on Ali showed in her development as growth rings in trees bear the scars of fires: she became withdrawn and quiet. That said, while getting emotional about doing poorly by your child is understandable – if all parents don’t feel guilt for damaging their kids, they sure as hell should – there’s no reason for me to get upset with Martin. It risks impeding progress. What makes sense is to figure out what to do, and discuss it with Martin as needed. Which I would – tonight.

I lingered by the Exploratorium, feeling like I was still missing something. What? I walked faster ….

Behind Pier 39, I surrendered to the barking and splashing of throngs of sleek, lumpy sea lions gliding effortlessly through the water, struggling clumsily to hoist their glistening bodies onto docks, and bulldozing each other off the docks into the bay. Ali loves watching them.

Humans who care to recognize and understand their foibles should watch animals for a while. I bet Ali knows that and has for a long time.

On the way back to Market Street, I stole a last glimpse of the Exploratorium. It would be easier for a mother and daughter to stay connected if the whispering dishes were magic, rather than an example of the physics of parabolic reflection of sound waves.

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Thoughts on regrets and reminiscences? Melancholy and the passage of time? Parenting and partnering? Please share them below. And stay tuned for the next “Dear San Francisco” letter. Thanks for supporting my writing efforts!

By way of update, I’ve decided to embark on a developmental edit of 29 Bottles, my manuscript about a not-quite-divorced couple’s wine-splashed journey through their volatile past and towards an uncertain future. I’ve engaged a fantastic editor, and can’t wait to get going. Unfortunately, I’ll need to wait a couple of months to get going, since fantastic editors’ schedules are crowded. But well worth it, and I look forward to improving the manuscript, along with the chances that 29 Bottles will catch an agent’s attention when I turn back to submitting it this fall!

Over the summer, I’ll keep posting excerpts from 29 Bottles. On that note ….

Given that Paris is one of the novel’s settings, the Seine shows up more than once in 29 Bottles – including in the following scene, which I’ve edited slightly for context and flow. It takes place near the end of the novel. Ali, the Gen Z daughter of “cotagonists” Martin and Fianna, who carries more than her share of baggage from growing up in the shadow of her parents’ turbulent marriage, ponders whether she’ll remain scared off romantic love for the long run; or give it a shot one day. Read on, and two pix of the famous padlocks fastened to the Seine’s bridges taken earlier this month appear after the passage.

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As I cut towards Sébastopol, a light breeze carried voices from Les Halles, two blocks away. Lovers teasing, then laughing. Kids shrieking while racing through shallow pools and idling by misting nozzles. Parents shouting.

I made for the Seine. My eyes swept east and west, marking the river’s bridges. I knew the railings of many were still adorned with cadenas d’amour – padlocks left by lovers, often bearing initials – though Paris banned the practice years ago.

Eventually, railings collapse under the weight of the locks; keys thrown into the water kill the Seine’s fish and birds. Regardless. Endless streams of lovers, powerless against the pull of the padlocks’ promise – unbreakable love – fasten hopes to structures unable to bear the weight, discarding their escape keys in a fragile river struggling to survive their unintended consequences.

Gazing at the river and its bridges as I thought of my parents, I couldn’t help but wonder why. To keep themselves from resisting the pull, maybe?

I turned, backtracked across Rivoli, and drifted a block to the left before realizing I was heading towards our family’s apartment. I laughed at myself. Someday, maybe I’d see – no, feel – the pull. Grabbing my phone, I replied to my Dad’s last text, one of dozens of identical one-word questions he’d sent since March – Open? – urging me to stay open to the possibility of love. I usually don’t respond. Sometimes I answer in kind, with a single-word question – why?, because?, or, if I’m feeling charitable, maybe? Today would be different.

ok

if i do find someone and feel the pull should i ask them ….

“Can I go where you go? / Can we always be this close forever and ever?”

I pocketed my phone, glad to give my Dad something he’d like waking up to in San Francisco. And confident he wouldn’t be able to top the wishes expressed by Taylor Swift in Lover as my promise to consider surrendering to the pull. Someday. Maybe.

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Thoughts on “the pull?” Or on the benefits vs the burdens of love? Drop a comment! And stay tuned for the next “Dear San Francisco” letter. Thanks for supporting my writing efforts!

The work of submitting 29 Bottles, my manuscript about a not-quite-divorced couple’s wine-splashed journey through their volatile past and towards an uncertain future, to literary agents continues. It’s more perspiration than inspiration lately, but it’ll all be worth it when 29 Bottles is launched!

The novel opens with dual/dueling narrators Martin and Fianna at an impasse over one last thorny issue precluding them from finalizing a divorce settlement: what to do with their beloved wine collection. They devise the unorthodox solution of drinking each bottle together, one per night, over the course of a month. So, the action of 29 Bottles revolves around these “bottle nights,” which include tasting notes and accompanying meals Martin and Fianna prepare. These evenings become opportunities for them to communicate, work through longstanding problems, and decide what their future – together or apart – should be.

Today’s post features a superstar Pinot Noir from Anderson Valley’s Navarro Vineyards. [Side bar: if you’ve never been … GO! It’s a beautiful place to visit with a friendly, down-to-earth staff, and the wide array of superb bottlings promises something for every wine fan’s palate.] See below for pix of Navarro’s gorgeous site and the winery’s Méthode à l’Ancienne Pinot Noir, taken during a visit two months ago.

And now, for a scene from 29 Bottles, edited slightly for context and flow. It takes place with Martin and Fianna one week into their wine-aided (mis?)adventure. Martin is making dinner to pair with the evening’s bottle. Given how fickle the wine gods are – especially where Pinot Noir is concerned – he fears the Méthode à l’Ancienne may be past its peak after 20+ years in the bottle.

How did it go? Read on, but don’t expect a spoiler revealing the chapter-ending twist that follows this scene!

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“Do I smell pizza?” Fianna asked. “The one you recommend in your write-up?” She looked impressed.

I was sweating. But happy. “Soon! The hardwood’s close to 900. When it gets there, the pie goes into the pizza oven.”

“There’s a wood fire in the kitchen?” She looked less impressed. “Please don’t burn the house down, Martin. The insurance is paid up, but that doesn’t mean we should use it.”

“Don’t worry. Got the oven set up right under the vent.”

Fianna frowned, shaking her head slightly as I mopped my face with my sleeve. Then, a half-smile slowly found its way to her lips. “Are you nervous, Martin?”

I shrugged. “Anxious, maybe.” I handed her a glass of the Pinot. “Hopefully, this will take the edge off.” We swirled, inhaled, raised glasses, and sipped gingerly. Then, I raised my head, and saw Fianna’s eyes light up as I knew mine had. I didn’t bother to say “Wow” – or anything else. Neither did she. My anxiety evaporated and my heart stood still.

It’s a rare and privileged moment to taste a wine that – beyond enticing the nose and captivating the palate – smashes your wildest expectations. Not because they were low. On the contrary, we wine drinkers are starry-eyed; hopeful verging on dopey. No. It’s because when it dawns on you that everything that could possibly have gone right for a whole year – weather; vineyard tactics; tank room decisions; barrel aging; bottling – did go right … and everything else went right in the cellar too – for the next 25 years – to deliver perfection to your senses …. Well. That’s a moment to hold. In reverence. To savor not only with your nose and on your tongue, but as a tonic for your soul: living proof bestowed by the universe that once in a very great while, you can hold between your fingers the thin stem of a fragile globe that contains a cool, flowing beautiful reward for having made every last choice correctly as you negotiated the twists and turns that life presents, for a period that lasted longer than your daughter’s been alive.

We leaned back on the couch. Shared the silent appreciation of all that had gone right. Of all that still might. After five minutes of quiet, I got deliberately to my feet, went to the kitchen, slid the pizza into the oven, and watched it until the crust bubbled ….

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What do you think? Drop a comment – and bonus points for sharing any similar experience with a mind-blowing, life-changing wine! Stay tuned for the next “Dear San Francisco” letter too. Thanks for supporting my writing efforts!

Quick update on 29 Bottles, my manuscript about a not-quite-divorced couple’s wine-splashed journey through their volatile past and what they discover it means for the future: work with beta readers of the novel continues, even as I start submitting the manuscript to literary agents. I’ll hit you with another progress report next month as I navigate the long and winding road of publishing a debut novel. Meanwhile, please hit me with any thoughts, advice, or other guidance you can offer!

In today’s post, the action remains in the City by the Bay. Check out these photos: one each from three of Martin/Fianna’s – and San Francisco’s – much-loved wine shops. Bonus points to anyone who IDs at least one of the shops pictured in these snaps! (Hints: one’s on the Bay; one is close to the Breakers; and another’s in the Castro, SF’s geographical and figurative heart.)

As some of you know, 29 Bottles opens with Martin and Fianna on the verge of finalizing their divorce, with only one final obstacle confronting them: what to do with their treasured wine collection, 29 bottles acquired one per year on annual vacations, tied to key moments in their marriage. Unable to agree on who should keep it or how to divide it, they devise an unorthodox solution, agreeing to drink every bottle together – one per night – in February, 2024.

And there you have the structure of 29 Bottles: each chapter features a different bottle and accompanying tasting notes written by Martin or Fianna, the novel’s alternating/dueling narrators.

What begins as a logistical compromise to expedite finalizing their breakup quickly becomes something deeper. With each bottle, Martin and Fianna revisit a distinct chapter of their past, exploring the peaks and troughs of their nearly 30 years of marriage. Their “bottle nights” – structured around the tasting notes they prepare, accompanying meals, and memories of the years and trips during which they acquired each wine – evolve into rituals that allow them to communicate, work through longstanding problems, and decide what the future looks like for them.

Below is one of Martin’s write-ups, for a wine that he and Fianna drink a bit past the halfway point of 29 Bottles.

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Bottle #17: J. Rochioli West Block Pinot Noir (2007)

Category: Red

Varietal: Pinot Noir

Region: Russian River Valley

Notes: 2011 found us back in Sonoma, tasting Russian River wines as our daughter kicked up dust between vineyard rows. We chose Rochioli’s signature bottling to lay down. It offers a profusion of aromatics: fruit (red and black), flowers (dried and fresh), and herbs (potpourri). On the front palate, it’s ripe verging on sweet, but balanced by earthiness and mineral-driven acidity. Tannins and fruit have merged gracefully over the years, delivering softness and solidity. This wine is full-bodied, and age has imparted a leathery, mineral robustness. Hints of clove, star anise, and cola sing in harmony. A persistent finish highlights the wine’s layered texture, with oak in a supporting role. The 2007 West Block has proved resilient over time. That status rings a bell for travelers who discovered it at an uncertain point in their lives, seeking to regain validation and stability that only time and care can confer. Pair this standout pinot with pork loin roasted with rosemary and au jus porcini mushrooms, golden beets, and a wild rice medley.

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Thoughts on the structure of 29 Bottles, the tasting notes for the ‘07 J. Rochioli West Block Pinot, and the wine shop pix? Speak up! Also, feel free to add to the list by calling out your fave wine seller! Stay tuned for the next “Dear San Francisco” letter too. Finally, thanks as always for supporting my writing efforts!

Progress to report on my current project! (As a reminder, 29 Bottles is the story of a not-quite-divorced couple’s wine-splashed journey through their volatile past and what they discover it means for the future, with parallel quests for redemption from their adult daughter Ali.) Thanks to beta readers of the manuscript, I’ve had some very productive feedback sessions recently and made adjustments accordingly.

Now, the pitching begins in earnest as I target literary agents. Wish me luck in landing a great one to guide me through the gauntlet of the publishing world, and if you know an agent – or better yet are an agent – please let me know! Publishing a debut novel is a long and challenging process, but I’ll keep at it. And keep you posted.

Today, we hop from the public parks of Paris and London highlighted in my January and February posts to San Francisco’s Alamo Square Park, near the Victorian owned by Martin and Fianna, dual/dueling narrators and the pair at the center of 29 Bottles. Below is a shot of the Painted Ladies I took earlier this month, viewed from the raised park.

This vantage point is from a park bench where Martin and Fianna sit to sneak a few surreptitious sips of wine before dinner one night in February of 2024. Following are scenes (edited for flow and context) from the relevant chapter, narrated by Fianna.

“Let’s walk across the street to the park with a splash before the sun sets. Dinner’s in the oven; it’ll be almost ready when we get back.”

“Outdoor public drinking? Flagrant disregard of SF Rec & Park regulations? Count me in!” Martin replied enthusiastically.

I gave him a shove. I tried to make it a gentle one.

It’s endearing, if silly, that Martin relishes the rare occasions on which I break rules; he’d never choose a scofflaw as a partner. That said, all men seem to want a bad good girl.

….

“I like it!” Martin cried after tasting the Pinot and eyeing his glass as if he’d bitten into a perfectly crisp apple he’d feared would be mealy. We were sitting on a park bench facing the iconic Painted Ladies, a row of jewel-toned Victorians.

For the third time since we’d stepped outside, I looked left and right for any sign of law enforcement. Seeing none, I sipped the wine quickly. “I’ll reserve judgment.”

“There’s a first.”

I gave Martin a shove. This time, it felt comfortable. “I mean until we have food. It’s nice, but I’m not sure it stands on its own.” I drew my jacket tightly against the chill.

Martin shrugged. “I like it,” he repeated, draining his glass. “Light acidity. Subtle fruit. But. I get what you mean. Grabs you but doesn’t hold you.” I shivered and he stood up.

How would Ali react if she learned her parents had been arrested for public drinking? Not your finest hour, I imagined her saying as she rolled her eyes, But probably not your worst either.

Do men really want a “bad good girl?” If so, why? And how much of what parents do is influenced by what their kids may think of them – especially when the kids are grown up? Please drop a comment here to weigh in on these topics, Alamo Square Park, the banter between Martin and Fianna, and (as always) wine! Stay tuned for the next “Dear San Francisco” letter too. Thanks for continuing to support my writing efforts!

To repeat my 2026 disclaimer: throughout the year, these Substack posts will relate to my current manuscript, 29 Bottles, which I plan to publish later this year or next. Thanks to those of you who’ve volunteered to read it this past month! Anyone else game? If so, post a comment below or reach out to me directly. You’ll be compensated appropriately – actually, nourished is more like it, in liquid and/or solid food fashion.

By way of reminder, 29 Bottles, set in San Francisco and Paris, is about a not-quite-divorced couple’s wine-splashed journey through their volatile past and what they discover it means for the future, including a path forward to reimagined relationships with their adult daughter. Told in a dual and dueling narrative structure offering new spins on the “He said, she said” and “Will they or won’t they” tropes, the book is about the loss and rediscovery of love, sex, and mutual affection; mending of family ties; and parallel quests for redemption in the wake of marriage drift and separation in middle age.

Following last month’s video clip of a park in Paris where several important scenes take place, let’s hop to the other side of the Channel, aka “la Manche“ as the French say (referring to its sleeve-like shape), for a look at two beloved London parks. Below find snaps of spots in Regents Park and Hyde Park that I took earlier this month.

How do these parks compare to some of Paris’s best known, like the Tuileries or the Jardin du Luxembourg? With the caveat that my midwinter strolls through them may not be representative … the vibe is different. English parks felt more formal in their gardening and manicuring, especially the quality of the grass. There were fewer places to sit and hang out, but more open space, trails to walk, and areas dedicated to sports. Like tennis courts and soccer fields, all packed with denizens of London, frigid February temp’s be damned – talk about the proverbial British stiff upper lip! As for commonalities, parks in both Paris and London do double duty admirably to serve locals and tourists alike.

Now, for the million-pound/million-euro question: why London – where no scenes in 29 Bottles are set – for photo opp’s?

Well, no present-tense scenes. Martin and Fianna, the novel’s two main characters, revisit a 2015 family trip to London as they pair oysters with a bottle of bubbly from an up-and-coming English sparkling wine producer. Yes, you read that correctly – British sparkling wine has come a long way … if not quite to the point of challenging Champagne. (Yet.)

Another reason for the British shift: Posey. She’s a supporting character with a recurring and important role, and has quickly become a favorite of early readers. Posey is an indomitable, oversexed British grande dame who captures Martin’s interest in Paris and interacts with him throughout 29 Bottles, bantering frequently – and explicitly – about sex and about the differences between men and women. No spoilers, but in the end, she turns out not to be quite what she appears ….

Below is a scene featuring Martin and Posey, with Posey initiating a discussion soon after they meet. (Edited for flow.)

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“It’s unfortunate men lack the capacity of women.”

I winced. “Are we speaking generally, Posey? Or specifically of sex?” I’d arrived at the park on Saturday to find her on my bench. I sat beside her.

“Interesting that you ask. Both topics merit discussion. That said, since I’ve got to dash shortly, let’s confine ourselves to sex today, shall we?”

“Of course.”

“Pity the sexes weren’t created to be more compatible in this regard, and that men seem disinclined to better themselves. I’ve long struggled to understand the reasons for both.” ….

“I hate to ask an obvious question, Posey, but have you tried women?”

“Once, decades ago. A mixed experience. On one hand, swapping orgasm for orgasm over the course of a long afternoon was quite agreeable, and well beyond what one could expect of any man.” My stomach dropped ... I kept quiet. To avoid venturing into dangerous territory. “On the other,” she continued, thankfully unaware I was flushed, “My playmate and I made a mess that was regrettable, to say the least.”

“You ruined your friendship?”

“No, I mean we made a mess of my old flat in London, which lacked a washer. The linens? A complete loss. The mattress took a week to dry; even then, it wasn’t the same. And the stains on the floor? My god.”

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Please drop a comment here to let me know what you think of Regents Park, Hyde Park, Posey, and/or anything else! Stay tuned for the next “Dear San Francisco” letter too. Thanks for continuing to support my writing efforts!

A new year kicks off a new initiative! As promised, these monthly posts in 2026 will relate to my current writing project, 29 Bottles, a novel I plan to publish later this year or next. Set in San Francisco and Paris, 29 Bottles is a not-quite-divorced couple’s wine-splashed journey through a volatile past and what they discover it means for their future. It’s about the loss and rekindling of sex, love, and family ties; and a quest for redemption after marriage drift and separation.

As a status update, I’m working on my latest revision, with supreme gratitude for input received from a few early readers. (You know who you are!) On that note, if any others among you are willing to be beta readers when the next draft is ready, please post a comment below or reach out to me directly. What’s in it for you? Besides a warm fuzzy feeling from knowing that – finally – you’ve become the superlative human your parents always said you were? And a shout-out in the Acknowledgments section when 29 Bottles is published? Well, more tangibly … a glass of wine – of course! – for reading and critiquing the first few chapters (approx. 50 pages); or lunch/dinner if you read the whole thing and provide unvarnished feedback.

Now, to spotlight a spot where scenes from the novel are set! Below is a video of the small park in central Paris that inspired scenes in the epilogue and prologue, framing the novel; and for several other consequential meet-ups that take place in the park. 29 Bottles opens in the park when the precocious and wry Gen Z daughter of the estranged couple at the heart of the book ambushes her father, establishing the novel’s main storyline and putting her feuding parents on a collision course towards a long overdue reckoning.

So …. Why choose a park as the setting for so many key scenes in 29 Bottles? Maybe because these types of public spaces have captured my imagination since I first got to France. Paris is densely populated and jampacked on any given day. So, Parisians cherish their parks for benefits I think Americans often take for granted: open space, fresh air, an escape from the crush of the crowded streets, and most of all, a place to interact with others.

The park featured in 29 Bottles – Square Émile-Chautemps – is a heavily frequented public space typical of Paris. The city boasts a veritable buffet (400+) of small and mid-sized public parks and gardens. Each has its own vibe. The Tuileries provide a grand open air museum experience to visitors. The Jardin du Luxembourg offers monuments, flowers, and ponds. The Parc des Buttes-Chaumont is an elevated forest teeming with birds, bees, flowers, and trees. The Square de la Tour-Saint-Jacques boasts a Gothic tower. Almost all Parisian parks include benches for sitting and chatting/eating/reading … or just sitting.

Émile-Chautemps packs an impressive array of offerings into a small space: an external gravel path for walkers/joggers; well-maintained flora; a book exchange box; benches; two fountains and a small monument; an outdoor ping pong table; and a playground for kids.

My favorite thing about this park? The relative absence of tourists. It’s a gathering spot for people who live and/or work in the neighborhood. And therefore, perfect for important encounters and conversations between main characters in 29 Bottles.

Please drop a comment here to let me know what you think of this mélange of 29 Bottles teasers and observations on French culture. Stay tuned for the next “Dear San Francisco” letter too. Last but not least, thanks for continuing to support my writing efforts!

2025 has been one hell of a ride. It’s been a pleasure and a privilege to split time between you (the City by the Bay) and your sister city Paris (the City of Light). Now, with the holiday season receding, 2026 beckons. The winds of change can be unsettling, so below are snaps of two enduring and iconic symbols of constancy, one from each city I’ve hung my hat in during 2025.

In the spirit of renewal, I plan to make two changes to this Substack in 2026. First, a switch in frequency: going forward, I’ll publish one letter at the end of each month, instead of posting twice monthly. Was that a collective sigh of relief I heard across the Substackverse? (Ha ha.)

Second, I’ll use the monthly posts to discuss my current project, a manuscript with a working title of 29 Bottles. Including exploring selected spots in both cities where scenes take place, and some of the fabulous food and wine that’s central to the novel, you ask? Yes and yes! So, stay tuned, thanks for continuing to support my writing, and ….

Happy (almost) New Year!

Christmas as bloodsport? Seems to go just a bit against the spirit of the holiday, but here we are. The business of Christmas is competitive here in Europe, where options abound for wandering through adorable (if contrived) semi-permanent Alpine villages, dropping euros like UNESCO to support a cultural institution. Also, before you ask, I won’t waste my time promoting the Christmas market schtick to San Francisco – or anywhere else in the US. Tree-lighting ceremonies aside, it’s just not gonna happen.

To explain my Marché de Noël mania …. During a winter visit to Paris years ago, I tramped through countless Christmas markets: some big, some small, and all with traditional northern French/German/Swiss food and drink. I enjoyed the first few. Then I turned grouchy, deciding I was sick to death of the whole Christmas village routine. Bah, humbug!

But then … almost as soon as the markets disappeared after Christmas, something touching and terrible happened. I missed them, and embarked on a dark winter season full of regrets, recriminations, and boo-hoo-hoo’s at having taken them for granted, fickle flip-flopper that I am.

So, I plotted the only course possible to follow in the true spirit of Christmas: I planned my revenge, swearing a solemn oath that at the next opportunity, I’d binge on Christmas markets. I’d grab Christmas by the throat, damn it, and squeeze every last drop of magical joy from every last vat of mulled wine in every last Marché de Noël in Paris. Ho, ho, freakin’ ho. And this winter, off I went, making solid progress on my mission through early December.

But then? A few markets into the quest, they started to feel stale. Formulaic. Over-crowded. Commercialized.

How to recapture the magic? Some quick research made it clear: I had to go to Alsace. Specifically, to the city that calls itself the Capitale de Noël. And where delicious and underappreciated Crémants d’Alsace, Rieslings, Gewürztraminers, etc., flow freely. (Purely coincidental to the mission, of course.)

So, last week found me in Strasbourg. And …. WOW, with all due respect to the City of Light’s Marchés de Noël, Strasbourg kicks Paris’s ass at Christmas. For that matter, it kicks Mariah Carey’s too. The self-anointed Queen of Christmas wouldn’t merit a “Christmas Princess” title compared to what Strasbourg does with the holiday. Strasbourg knows how to Christmas.

There were at least ten different markets inside the small city center. So, within a few minutes’ walk, you had ready access to ten different kinds of pretzels; an even higher count of varieties of pain d’épices; rivers of sundry Alsatian melted cheese offerings; heaps of sausages and sauerkraut; oodles of Spätzles; mulled wine (white and red); and an overload of artsy-crafties to buy. Many of Strasbourg’s Marchés had cool areas of focus too: the charitable giving market, the small local producers market, the food/wine market, etc.

The real sell, though? The decorations. Off the hook. The wattage of Vegas meets cozy, classy, half-timbered European charm. I couldn’t have been more bedazzled if I’d gotten a gingerbread house Airbnb located in a snow globe for four days. Wish I could show you all the photos and videos, but I don’t want to break the internet. I hope the snaps above and below give you a taste, though.

Towards the end of the trip, just as I started to feel like I’d vanquished the Ghost of Christmas Markets Past, I learned there are a handful of smaller towns in northern France and Germany that claim to out-Christmas Strasbourg, with more intimate, authentic, and relaxing vibes. It’s hard to imagine anything could top last week’s Christmas-Market-Palooza, but I’ll admit I’m intrigued. Is a one-week drive through a handful of small towns in Alsace in the cards for next year? TBD.

Thoughts on my Marché de Noël shenanigans? Drop a comment, and many thanks for supporting my writing. Have wonderful holidays, and I’ll look forward to reporting back about New Year’s festivities in Paris.

Quick: Is it harder to be an American craving a traditional Thanksgiving in Paris; or to be a vegan in Paris? Close call …. But what about an American vegan in Paris seeking classic Thanksgiving side dishes, if not the turkey? High maintenance, I know!

Unlike other American holidays the French seem to have adopted and adapted, Thanksgiving is not on the radar here. The good news, though? In this autumn/winter season, root vegetables abound in the markets. So, no problem with the side dishes on Thursday, with roasted chestnuts making a cameo as the bonus appetizer to pair with a magnifique bottle of Billecart-Salmon rosé Champagne:

As for being vegan here, well, I’ll be diplomatic and say that if Rome wasn’t built in a day, recognition of “All Things Vegan” in Paris won’t occur overnight. For example, a fair amount of hunting in this town – without a rifle, of course – was required to find a “field roast” for the Thanksgiving table, and it turned out to be made by a German company. Oh well. Over the years, a tolerable level of tolerance of “Some Things Vegan” has emerged from the ashes of a longtime “No Things Vegan” disposition. So, I’ll take that as a win, even if I’m not holding my breath for the City of Light to embrace the veg agenda fully, much less offer air-kisses on both cheeks to us vegan types.

Nonetheless, there’s no better place to be than Paris if you want an array of options for a simple Beaujolais Nouveau to go with Thanksgiving dinner!

Add it all up and you get un délicieux dîner de Thanksgiving, if not an entirely traditional one. See below for evidence of the feast: the aforementioned plant-based roast and wine; oven-roasted turnips, parsnips, rutabagas, sweet potatoes, carrots, and onions; seasoned cous-cous; a pain de maïs (not American-style cornbread, but a loaf of bread made with maize); and good old green beans.

Bottom line? Some of the dishes served may differ from what would’ve been on the table in the US, but the essential and universal elements of Thanksgiving were present here across the pond: bar the door (nobody in or out); change into sweatpants; eat too much; and drink too much. I hope you can say the same, and that you and your loved ones had a great holiday!

Please drop a comment with your take on my vegan Thanksgiving in Paris. And thank you for supporting my writing!

Being in the City these past few weeks has been amazing; it’s highlighted how much I miss it. So much that I’m looking forward to returning again! Casing old haunts and finding cool new spots and sites has reminded me of one of SF’s superpowers over decades and centuries: reinvention of self at the civic level, which in turn encourages groups and individuals alike to do the same. Including, but not limited to, eerie-looking mermaids. (See below.)

It’s beyond exciting to see signs of progress in San Francisco’s comeback since the last time I was in town about 6 months ago. But …. How much progress? Below, I offer my subjective and entirely unscientific analysis – think vibe-o-meter, not scale or spectrometer – within categories I’ve pulled from the fog.

HALLOWEEN

Impressions. An odd category to kick off with? Maybe. But, besides Bay to Breakers, what public spectacle has better symbolized San Francisco’s spirit of independence over the decades? From the event’s 1940s origin as a children’s fête, to the Pride Celebration it morphed into during the 1970s, and the monster street party it became in the early 2000s …. As of two weeks ago, Halloween in the Castro seems to have assumed elements of all three of those eras while evolving from a post-2006 hiatus, with family-friendly events; a strong Pride presence; and copious drinking and dancing in the streets. Plus, a fair amount of nudity, though not enough to rival Bay to Breakers!

Grade. Incomplete. Given the lengthy absence of the City’s premier Halloween party and its current status as a melding of multiple past traditions, it’s hard to define – and grade – the event.

Homework. Wait and watch. The current-day reboot needs more time to come together and assume a unique identity, which it will. So, let’s check back next year.

LIVEABILITY

Impressions. Major strides have been made in public safety, with Downtown SF’s main areas all in better shape than 6 months ago. I noticed that more workers, tourists, shoppers, and residents are in the streets, and fewer in distress are on the streets. November’s “First Thursday” was buzzy and well-attended; new restaurants and shops have appeared, with more on the way; and the spirit of renewal is in the air. Kudos! The only ding? Affordability is more of a disaster than ever – a $20 sandwich; really? – but that problem is of course far from being unique to SF.

Grade. B- for results / A for effort.

Homework. Get more cops, ambassadors, and volunteers in the areas that need them most (easier said than done, I realize). Also, based on a quick spin by the Cliff House, it’s hard to imagine the construction/reopening plans for the property – four restaurant venues within a year, I’ve heard! – are on track, so I suspect an intervention to check in and move things along is in order.

BEAUTY

Impressions. Guess what? SF still dazzles. Given its natural beauty stretching from Bridge to Bridge and considering new outdoor public art like the latest “Hearts in San Francisco” installations at Fisherman’s Wharf (see below) and the aforementioned mermaid, the City hasn’t lost a step.

Grade. A.

Homework. STICK to the current plan of restoring those sparkly, dripping e-tinsel strands better known as the Bay Lights to the Bay Bridge, and the sooner the better!

Au revoir!

Please drop a comment with your take on my thoughts about San Francisco’s ongoing rejuvenation. And thank you for supporting my writing!

I’m excited to be in San Francisco for Halloween tonight! And in the Castro, if all goes to plan! Also, psyched to learn that the date of October’s night market on 18^th Street has been changed to fall on Halloween. See you there? Hope so!

Guess this means spending my first Halloween in Paris will have to wait. That said, signs of All Hallows’ Eve started appearing earlier this month in the City of Lights, mostly in the form of shop decorations. Especially candy shops, of course. (See below for a snap from a chocolatier in my Paris ’hood.) It seems Halloween is a retail/commercial affair in France, as in the US. To the surprise of nobody, the French seem to focus more on pretty than scary.

Seeing Paris prep for Halloween made me curious about how the city celebrates the holiday compared to San Francisco. So, I asked some Parisian friends about their experiences with Halloween. Below, I share what I learned about the comparisons and contrasts between the two cities’ approaches. (Note – some of these are more general comparisons between France and the US than strictly Paris vs San Francisco.)

• Trick-or-Treating. Not a thing in Paris. Most of Paris is dense and urban; big apartment buildings far outnumber single family homes. That makes the whole city a sub-optimal trick-or-treating environment. In banlieues (suburbs), it’s more common for kids to go door-to-door, ringing bells of houses with lights in the windows indicating the residents are handing out candy. Also, it’s typically done before night falls.

• Mischief. Also not a thing in France, with one exception – a friend’s home got the time-honored American-style TP treatment one year, for leaving lights on but failing to dispense sweets. Side Bar #1: the French seem to have some room for miscreants to do their thing during Mardi Gras in February, when kids may have egg battles (worse than snowball fights in terms of cleanup, I imagine), and/or throw eggs at their schools (because, who wouldn’t want to do that?).

• Costumes. Yes! French children and adults dress up for Halloween IF they have events or gatherings to attend. Parisian kids apparently lean more towards the fantasy and horror film genres for costume ideas – think Harry Potter themed outfits for the tykes and slasher film character costumes for older kids – than towards a wider array of cultural figures, as kids in SF might.

• Parties. More common ground! There are lots of Halloween events in Paris for grownups, including themed nights at bars, clubs, and even restaurants. Just like San Francisco! Parisian children tend to go to private parties organized by their families, schoolmates, etc. Side Bar #2: on the next day, November 1^st, the French mark La Fête de la Toussaint, All Saints’ Day, spending time with family to honor departed relatives and ancestors. So, come to think of it, kind of ghostly in a religious way ….

HAPPY HALLOWEEN to all, and my best wishes for a super cool bash in the Castro tonight, with the Goldilocks/”just right” balance of boisterousness and public safety! And ….

Please drop a comment with your Halloween wish for San Francisco. And thank you for supporting my writing!

Let’s clear the decks of off-color (i.e., pale yellow) quips: better to be pissed off than pissed on; “you’re in” trouble now; ever read The Yellow River by I.P. Daley?

That’s it. Done. I swear by all things great and good to eschew further puerile pee-pee puns in this post. Starting now? An earnest tribute to the dark green self-cleaning public toilets like this unit outside the Pompidou Centre, and a comparison of the “Number One” strategies – sorry, but you didn’t really buy that “great and good” bit, did you? – of Paris and San Francisco to deploy them. (Fun Fact #1: SF’s units are manufactured by a French company just outside Paris!)

Paris truly puts the oui in wee-wee. The proliferation of Parisian public pissoirs? Prodigious. Don’t believe me? Check out the zoom of the “Micturition Map” below. A formidable flood of free and sanitary (well, sort of) toilettes, plus estimated 5- and 10-min walking times to reach multiple options from where you are.

How does the City by the Bay’s propensity for proffering piddling places stack up? If my AI-aided research and statistical extrapolations can be trusted, the answer is …. Piss-poor. By any measure, SF badly lags Paris in the crucial “Heads Per Head” count: for each free public toilet, there are about 14,000 Parisians, compared to 72,000 San Franciscans. As for the all-important average “Distance to Piss” metric, in Paris it’s 1,370 feet (just over a quarter of a mile) vs. 5,360 feet (about a mile) for SF. (Fun Fact #2: Paris and SF turn out to be roughly the same size, geographically.)

In a bit of good news for gents, the estimated numbers of trees per square mile in each city are almost identical.

Speaking of men, the Parisian units include diagrams for guys choosing to abuse the sheet metal “water wall” rather than the full toilet that’s also available in each module. (See below.) No doubt aware of the tendency of men to be incurably visual, the urinary authorities in Paris see fit to grace every toilet’s exterior with a stenciled outline of a stick figure, dutifully supervising his dashes – or dots? – of Morse Code output. Do women in Paris wonder why they’re expected to address serious challenges like forgoing toilet seats and toilet paper – without guidance – while men need pictograms to understand how to wizz on a wall?

Regardless, onward to the serious issues here. First, I’m glad these units allow any and all to relieve themselves with some measure of dignity. Second, these toilets improve quality of life issues for everyone, making cities more appealing for residents, visitors, and merchants. Especially in a busy, urban environment. Parisians and tourists alike use public toilets in the City of Light. I’ve used them a few times myself since getting here.

The units have been successful overall in San Francisco too. Despite challenges with cleanliness, maintenance, and misuse, usage is high, approaching a million flushes per year. Plus, these free toilets have reduced the amount of human waste on city streets. Finally, they pay for themselves, thanks to revenues from businesses that place their ad posters on the exteriors, with no direct costs incurred by the City. (Fun Fact #3: the ads are disproportionately for luxury brands.)

So …. My vote is for more of these units in San Francisco, especially in high-traffic areas, to keep the City’s comeback coming back.

What do you think? Drop a comment with your thoughts on deploying more public toilets to improve San Francisco’s, umm, flow. And thanks for supporting my writing!

BREAKING NEWS: I’ve completed the first draft of my new manuscript! The working title is 29 Bottles, and it’s been almost a year in the making. Below is a synopsis, followed by a special offer to you all …. Read on!

The Story

We know about meet-cutes, but what about a split-cute?

It’s February 2024. After three turbulent decades, Martin and Fianna are inches from finalizing prolonged, bitter divorce proceedings. They struggle to clear the final obstacle: disposition of their prized wine collection, built one bottle per year. So, they agree to drink them all. Together. One bottle per night. During a wine-splashed spin through their marriage’s peaks and valleys that includes tasting notes, food pairings, and travel adventures, Martin and Fianna must confront their shortcomings as partners and parents; navigate their precocious Gen Z daughter’s suspected interventions; and decide if their combustible pull of sex, love, and companionship should reunite them in changed circumstances. Can they carry through with their plan and survive the month? If so … what happens when the last bottle’s empty?

Set in Paris and San Francisco, 29 Bottles is about one couple’s journey through their volatile past and what they discover it means for their future.

The Deal

Are you willing to read the 8-ish page Prologue of 29 Bottles and offer unvarnished (I’m not brittle, so brutal’s better) feedback? Cool! Not only will you have my undying gratitude, but I’ll treat you to a coffee in Paris or San Francisco, you pick the setting. Disclaimer: transportation and lodging not included.) And, if you read the Prologue plus Chapters 1 and 2, for a total of about 50 pages, I’ll make it a glass of wine. Enticing? I hope so.

Let me know! Looking forward to sitting down with those of you willing to brave these pages, whether over stimulants or depressants. And thanks to all for supporting my writing!

First things first. As you may have noticed, the clip above includes a hilarious two-word interruption. Given the decidedly leftward orientation of the majority of last Wednesday’s protesters in Paris, it would be reasonable for you to assume one of the following:

• A rightward leaning activist infiltrated the demonstrations to seed the crowd with propaganda, and I picked up her mellifluous messaging while recording;

• My phone was hacked by an anonymous tech billionaire to send a not-so-subliminal political exhortation to viewers of the footage; or

• Targeting a quick laugh from you all, I spliced separate audio into the clip.

And …. “None of the above” is the correct answer. I inadvertently left my phone’s navigational software on, providing its indefatigable GPS sherpa with one of the funnier video-bombing opportunities I can recall. Better to be lucky than good, as usual.

Actually, “None of the above” captures the spirit of last Wednesday’s Bloquons tout – Let’s block everything – gatherings. Most demonstrators in the Place de la République struck me not as righteous ideologues, but simply fed up with everything. A contagious sentiment these days ….

And maybe that’s the case more often than not. Political movements, on the left and right, have hardened cores of hardcore types. But the rest? Typically comprised of folks driven by other feelings. Apathy. Dismay at the status quo. A sense of having nothing to lose or gain. Disgust with pol’s. Personally, I think this group in the middle has the real power to swing things one way or the other, whether with active support or passive acquiescence of an agenda put forth by true believers.

Anyway, as I’ve wondered aloud before, have you, San Francisco, once dubbed “the city that knows how,” become no more than “the city that knew how” over the years? Also, isn’t it worth considering what San Francisco wants – and why – before jumping to how to rally?

I’d love to see the City by the Bay take a lead role in answering the “what/why/how” of running a city to create circumstances that offer its denizens positive, fulfilling daily lives. As a city with a proud counterculture tradition, may I be so boldly moderate as to suggest that going against the grain in today’s climate of extremes to seize the radical middle ground represents a worthy revolution? Click-bait notwithstanding, on San Francisco’s main civic challenges – budgets, housing, crime, homelessness, business development (to list a few) – there are solutions the vast majority of its citizens would support. I know, I’m not the first to say so. And hey, maybe I’m just a middle-aged dude more concerned with getting back home to make dinner before the Paris protests turned uglier after dark (which they did) than with raging against the machine. Or raging against the ragers against the machine. Or whatever the soup du jour is. So, that’s my proposed “what.”

As for the “why,” whatever your politics … aren’t you exhausted? Done with the constant clamor for your attention from both ends of the spectrum? Over the news cycles, fake and real? Wouldn’t you welcome governance too competent (too boring, even!) to merit screaming matches and doom-scrolling? Couldn’t we all do with an outrage outage?

When it comes to the “how” of enacting policy decisions on San Francisco’s challenges, I’ll leave that to experts. But I hope they take notes on the pitfalls of being positioned at the extremes: from red states falling over themselves to be the most anti-immigration, pro-gun, anti-regulatory, and pro-business places in the country; to a democratic socialist aiming at fare-free transit, subsidized childcare, taxing the wealthy further, and raising the minimum wage, poised to become mayor of the country’s biggest blue city.

Can’t San Francisco split the goalposts? I think that’s starting to happen already. The City seems to be shifting underfoot towards pragmatic, centrist approaches in several areas. Not so sexy, and definitely won’t be quick; but just might (re)establish San Francisco as the city that knows how to block and tackle, not just block.

What do you think? Drop a comment with your thoughts on making San Francisco the city that knows how better! And thanks for supporting my writing!

That is the question. And while I’m no jazz aficionado – my limited chops begin with appreciating Thelonius Monk’s best-known pieces and end with recognizing covers of “The Girl from Ipanema” – the answer is a resounding YES. Listening to jazz (especially played live), glass in hand (ideally filled with the fruit of the vine), is always a pleasure. What’s better than letting music and wine transport you from the here-and-now? Besides, supporting jazz is a modest way to pay homage to an original American art form and to African-American contributions to the genre in particular. So, what’s the story with jazz here across the pond?

Previous visits to Paris showed me how much the French love jazz. (Fun fact: New Orleans, birthplace and cradle of jazz, is the only US city with a higher concentration of jazz venues than the City of Light.) This summer confirms my impressions: jazz is in the air all over Paris! My first trip to the Bois de Vincennes on the city’s eastern edge included visiting the Parc Floral, which boasts botanical gardens, a mini-golf course, and open-air event venues. Paris sponsors a summer jazz festival there, with dozens of acts playing from late June through early September. Last weekend, I caught the Tania Giannouli Trio’s performance (piano, trumpet, and oud, which is the ancestor of the lute), as you can see and hear from the video clip.

[WARNING: JAZZ-INSPIRED SLANG APPEARS BELOW IN ITALICS]

Two thoughts struck me as I flipped through the program and scanned the audience. First, while it’s solid to see how international a genre jazz is, the absence of people of African and Latin descent – performers and attendees – compared to years gone by was notable. This is overwhelmingly true in Paris, and I think it applies to the US too. Again, cooler than cool to know folks of all backgrounds are hip to jazz’s smooth stylings, but … it feels like something’s missing.

Second, given San Francisco’s experience this year with the iconic Fillmore Jazz Festival – bagged for financial reasons; only a last-minute grant from a non-profit saved the gig – can the City by the Bay step up to help keep the festival groovin’ and beboppin’ going forward? Strengthening a link to jazz and to African-American culture in San Francisco, a city dwindling numbers of African-Americans call home, is a mission worth tackling.

The Fillmore Jazz Festival has been a civic and national treasure for 40 years. Held in the neighborhood once known as the “Harlem of the West,” the Fillmore was a jazz hotspot from at least the post-WWII period. John Coltrane, Ella Fitzgerald, Charlie Parker, and many more have performed in the City’s clubs.

The bad news? The Fillmore Jazz Festival almost disappeared in 2025.

The good news? It didn’t, and it was a huge success.

So, what can we do to support the festival going forward? To ensure San Francisco honors its smokin’ hot jazz tradition? To preserve the City’s link to African-American culture? To strengthen a cherished public event that will help keep SF’s comeback hoppin’ and boppin’ in the years ahead? Dig this ….

• The SF Supervisors could commit to repeating and expanding their one-time 2025 efforts, which were instrumental (pun intended) in securing a grant from a nonprofit to rescue the festival. Festival organizers have been clear they need long-term corporate sponsorships, crowdfunding, and other help with planning, fundraising, and promotional activities.

• The Supes and the Mayor could work with the Fillmore Merchants Association to establish a dedicated area for kids at future festivals. “Jazz Kidz” would be a groovy handle. The Latin Youth Jazz Ensemble and the Bay Area Music Ministry already participate in the festival; why not create synergies and attract more families with a separate space for kids’ activities?

• The City might reduce permitting requirements and fees to help keep vendors on board. OK, OK, not sexy. But this type of blocking and tackling support would address merchant concerns that in some cases, paying non-compliance fines is less costly than complying with burdensome regulations. Not boss, Daddy-O.

• The Mayor, or some other cool cat with ties to the Bay Area jazz scene (Christian McBride comes to mind), could present an award each year to the festival’s best breakthrough act. That would increase the event’s prestige and attract more acts, fans, and vendors.

What do you think? Drop a comment with your thoughts on keeping the City by the Bay swingin’ and all jazzed up. And thanks for supporting my writing!

Honestly, a little TOO easy here in Paris, in August. Why? Because nobody’s working! See the photo of the homemade sign below that appeared on the window of the boulangerie that – prepare to shed tears for your erstwhile protagonist’s first-world problem – bakes not only his favorite baguette, but also his partner-in-crime’s favorite croissant. Which establishment is this, you ask? I omit the name to spare it the shame, though I doubt there would be any.

Welcome to France’s famous congés d’été, summer holidays.

Could things possibly get any worse, you ask? Yes. Yes, they could. The boulangerie that makes my partner-in-crime’s second-favorite croissant has shut down for all of August too. Without the courtesy of posting a sign, no less!

I did mention this scarcity of staples, dearth of dough, and paucity of pastries constituted a first-world tragedy, right? C’est une blague? Mon Dieu! I’ll try to refrain from exaggerating, but this just might be the worst thing to happen to an American in Paris outside of the ongoing “Ice Cubes In Absentia” phenomenon that’s plagued Europe for centuries. Now, please feel free to break out the world’s smallest violin to play – just for me.

Returning to the beloved bakery not quite mentioned above, let me supplement my grievance. This venerable purveyor of all things yeasty and wonderful shuts its doors all weekend, every weekend, year-round. Add that shocking if regular dereliction of duty to bank holiday closures, plus the aforementioned August abdication, and by my count, you get a schedule that requires the shop to deliver the goods a mere 75% of the time. What’s that number in the US? Based on my initial online research, US bakeries are open on 95% or more days each year.

OK, with the above set-up, are you ready for my bimonthly exhortation for you, San Francisco, to be a bit more enlightened? How the City by the Bay can add a soupçon of je ne sais quoi and help supercharge its ongoing recovery by emulating the City of Light? When it comes to extended summer vacations, it’s easy:

DON’T.

With apologies to the French lifestyle – and acknowledging un petit peu of wistful envy – you can’t mount a comeback without showing up. San Francisco needs shops, restaurants, and other small businesses open more, not less. Otherwise, we risk backsliding into the sideways shuffle that’s characterized the City’s post-pandemic slump.

To be sure, when it comes to finding ways to relax, treat workers right, and build a more sustainable culture … I’m all in. Just don’t entirely scuttle the Puritan work ethic, 80-hour week, crunch culture, 996 mindset, or whatever you want to call the way Americans drive themselves. This point in San Francisco’s trajectory is one where everyone needs to accept a 3-word motto, at least for now: “Pedal, Meet Metal.” I’m not saying you should live to work, and above all, don’t work to work; but when the pressure’s on – which it is – you do need to work to live, for better and/or worse.

Anyone care to differ? I’m always open to contrary views – goodness knows I’ve voiced more than my share – so, please drop a comment if you think you have a good argument for taking things easier. And thanks for supporting my writing!

When it comes to celebrating one’s birthday, no place blows things up like America; observing France’s Bastille Day (La Fête Nationale to those dans le coup) fireworks recently confirmed as much. On 14 July, I parked myself on a bridge over the Seine to watch the pyrotechnics in Paris. As mentioned, the US is unrivaled in the “pyro” stage of the competition – i.e., the noise and visuals of traditional fireworks – but France’s display carried the day on the “technics” side of the coin. First, the Eiffel Tower was set to “sparkle” mode, as for other holidays and special occasions. That alone provides a hell of a setting for the “bombs bursting in air.” There was also a super cool projection display (hardware/software enabled) on the tower when it wasn’t sparkling. Not to mention the 1000-drone component to the show with the airborne whirligigs deployed to form various still and moving figures. Best of all? These varied pieces were all synchronized to complement and contrast each other within a single cohesive show. So, the French take the [birthday] cake for producing the snazzier, higher-tech spectacle. Check the video!

As you can hear, the crowd was into it. I wish I could post multiple clips – and still photos – here! But this is Substack, not Picstack. As for the “So what?” for San Francisco here, I have a couple of thoughts on how you might incorporate this approach into future public displays.

While I’ve seen light projections, drone shows, and fireworks in the City by the Bay, not sure I’ve seen them done simultaneously, much less carefully synced up and presented near an iconic international landmark. Speaking of which, do I remember correctly that there’s a well-known bridge or two in the City? And, hey, aren’t those sparkly, dripping LED strands known as the Bay Lights supposed to be rekindled later this year on the Bay Bridge? The circumstances for a backdrop to rival the Eiffel Tower are starting to come into focus ….

As for when, what about celebrating your birthday – separately from the country’s – as the annual occasion for a showstopping show? On June 29, 1776, Spanish colonists established the Mission San Francisco de Asís (aka Mission Dolores). Two days later, they put in place the muscle to back it up: the Presidio. So, might I be so bold as to suggest an annual bash to mark the occasion? Sure, it might upstage the Fourth a bit, and put you a little bit ahead of the rest of the US. Isn’t that where you belong anyway, though?

What do you think of marking San Francisco’s founding each year with a bash that features a coordinated and chic display combining the finesse of tech with the sounds and smells of gunpowder? Please weigh in by dropping a comment! And thanks for supporting my writing!

What’s in a name? A lot, actually. In the US, tipped employees depend on gratuities for their daily bread. In France, the word for tip is pourboire – “to drink” – and tips are infrequent and modest. Can you feel the balance of power between tipper and tippee shift? In the US, bartenders’ livings are in the hands of customers. In France, diners at brasseries buy servers drinks – something extra in life – to recognize outstanding service; otherwise, tipping is rare.

The history of American tipping is long and complex. So is how things play out in different places given the deltas among federal, state, and local minimum wage laws. Some studies show that we pay about the same amount and receive similar service in tipping vs non-tipping settings. If that’s true, I’d prefer a tipless world. Why? I’d rather buy someone a drink than pay for their groceries. In a world where wealth inequality reins, I’ll take egalitarian inroads where I can. Even modest ones.

That said, it’s really hard for me not to tip. Both as an American customer (even for awful service, my practice was to tip 15% in the US) and as a former service industry worker (who hustled long and hard for tips). Most of my experience as a tipped employee was part-time at a high-end winery, but I voluntarily skipped legally required lunch and rest breaks, sweated in the sun, and didn’t pee for 8 hours at a stretch, taking more tables to maximize my tips. But …. Wouldn’t you agree that tipping for poor service and putting one’s kidneys at risk are both sub-optimal?

Anyway, I’m far from the first American abroad to experience tip dysphoria. During shorter trips, I resolved it by … well … tipping. (Though at a lower percentage than in the US.) Now, on a longer-term stay, I’m trying to break the habit, except in cases of superb service. And ….

Here’s my idea for San Francisco to take a shot at changing the game with a pilot project. Let’s set up a City-backed public-private food hall, strip mall, or even a food truck park. Let’s call it The Tipping Point. Let’s make it a tip-free zone and communicate clearly to customers that no tipping is necessary because employees get a living wage that builds in an amount equal to a 20% service charge; and that menu prices reflect such included labor costs. Let’s send any tips customers leave anyway – because some will – to local non-profits that combat hunger, chosen by restaurant staff. Let’s incentivize restaurateurs with a modest tax credit from the City, or better yet, with a rent abatement if the food hall could be sited on SF-owned land.

Would this fly? Don’t know. Would it be challenging? Absolutely. But, it’s worth a shot.

Why? Because you’re San Francisco, and you don’t shy away from bold ideas or giving people a fair(er) shake. And because your hospitality industry is positioned to experiment. And most of all, because the destination – Tiplessness, USA – could be well worth the turbulence. The possibility of making life better for SF-based servers and served alike, while creating a blueprint for other places to follow? A challenge worthy of rising to meet.

Thoughts on this proposal to take a shot at toppling tipping? Ways to improve my suggestion or a model to implement it? Drop a comment! Thanks as always for supporting my writing!

If I could, I’d ask legendary French composer Claude Debussy, author of the quote above, this question: What do you call it when there’s no silence at all? Or at least, not until 7:00 the next morning?

La Fête de la Musique, first celebrated in Paris in 1982, was the brainchild of then Minister of Culture Jack Lang. Originally, it was envisioned as a night where anyone at any level of musical capability could do their thing; a night to put “the music everywhere and the concert nowhere.” Played the recorder in grade school? Tried to start a band in your teens? Sing in the shower sometimes? Grab a milk crate, set it up on any street in Paris, and go for it.

Now? Some things have changed; others haven’t. The spirit of going for it thrives. Radical inclusiveness too. But I’d say the focus was more on the party than on the music. Should they rename the night La Fête de la Fête?

Maybe so, because this was an EPIC bash. One that outstripped the excitement following big soccer and tennis matches that rocked Paris, described recently in this column. Disclaimers: I’m no party animal; nor musically inclined; and not remotely a dancer – trust me, nobody wants to see that. But I brought it as best I could for this bacchanalia. Spirits ran so high that esprit de corps is too small. Call it esprit de Paris. The streets were packed, and as you may know, many are too narrow for packing.

This is my first attempt at posting a video on Substack. Be gentle with me if it doesn’t come through right! Besides, it’s impossible to convey the night’s momentousness with any single clip. I walked the city in the 95-degree heat, checking out dozens of performances, ranging from milk crates to live bands and DJs. Where did all those amps come from?!!? No clue how many performance sites there were, but there must have been thousands. My best shot at describing the scene? It was like taking a thousand night clubs, a thousand Bottle Rocks, a thousand house parties, and a thousand open mic’s … and tossing them all out onto the streets of Paris.

Hordes teemed in from the suburbs. Business at restaurants and food stands was hopping. Bars and cafés sold booze and snacks to stay and to go. People walked, ran, danced, sweated, ate, and drank their way into the wee hours. To me, the following aspects of the extravaganza stood out:

1. The chaos was jubilant.

2. The event felt safe and peaceful. Conspicuously absent that night? Shootings, obviously. But I saw no garden-variety brawls either – despite scorching heat, testosterone to spare, copious alcohol, and pre-stampede conditions on some streets.

3. Family-friendliness reined. Can’t emphasize how great it was to watch kids as young as two dancing in the streets with their siblings and parents.

4. The clean-up was impressive. The streets of central Paris went from resembling a war zone to normal within a day or so.

So …. What can you learn here? It’s not a matter of reinventing the wheel. This French tradition has spread to cities around the world, including San Francisco, where Make Music Day SF brought free performances to Golden Gate Park. But you need get it out into the streets. Oh, and amp it up. All the way to 11.

Could City Hall provide a shot in the arm by strategically designating, say, a hundred spots for performances on SF streets and provide security and clean-up? With merchants kicking in to cover the set-up and break-down of equipment? Could revelers revel nicely? I’d like to pull on my rose-colored glasses and think “Yes!” to all of the above.

OK, onto business. It’s tough to overstate how much food, drink, etc., was bought and sold in the City of Light during La Fête de la Musique. It’s once a year, but it adds to the coffers of … EVERYONE. If jubilant chaos makes dollars, it makes sense.

I did my part, snagging a table at the venerable Au Rocher de Cancale just off Rue Montorgueil to watch and listen at a modest distance. With a bottle of wine, of course, and the ghosts of Balzac and Dumas. I suspect they would’ve liked the clubbified version of Smooth Operator.

Two months into my time here, I’m getting the impression that Paris is party central. Can Bastille Day possibly top what the last month has brought? I’ll let you know if I manage to recover within two weeks!

Thoughts on my suggestion to “bring the noise” to the City by the Bay? Ways to get it done? Drop a comment! And thanks as always for supporting my writing efforts!