The story begins at Bellaken Garden, a skilled nursing care facility in East Oakland, where my mother, Connie, has been staying since August. I’ve been visiting there twice a week, crossing the Bay Bridge from San Francisco and popping in with potstickers from a nearby takeout restaurant.

For months, I’d seen this thin, white-haired Asian woman seated in the lobby area, across from one of the dining rooms.  After a while, we’d exchange smiles and hellos. I’d noticed her mainly because she always had a transistor radio with her.  Being a radio columnist and occasional DJ, I asked what she was listening to. “Baseball,” she said. She was an avid San Francisco Giants fan, kept notes on their games, and kept their radio schedule close to her, all on a shelf of her walker. Her son, Jonathan, I would learn, works as a concessions cashier for both the Giants and the 49ers, so she was a football fan, too. We could talk.

I decided to do a little shout-out to her in my Radio Waves column in the San Francisco Chronicle, learned her name – June Kwei – and told her to watch for the mention. She appeared delighted, although I never properly introduced myself. Bad manners. (In Cantonese, “bad” is pronounced “kwei.”) Anyway, on December 11, the item ran, ending with “Holiday cheers to June Kwei.”

That evening, I received an email from a “Dede.” It was Mrs. Kwei’s daughter. I couldn’t believe it. Here’s most of what she wrote:

What a delight to see the mention of my mom, June Kwei, in your column today.  I just wanted to let you know that we are huge fans of yours, and have been faithfully following you in print and radio, since the ‘70s!

About two weeks ago, my mom called to say that "I am going to be in the paper." This event in itself was amazing, since being the typical Chinese mom, she only calls me after earthquakes and when she needs me to bring her more batteries for her little transistor radio. Since her memory is a bit sketchy these days, I thought I got the salient facts: that somehow you were visiting Bellaken and that you chatted about something -- she couldn't remember why, though.

I asked her if she told you that I, her 50-year-old Chinese American Bay Area native baby boomer daughter, had listened to the old KSAN for years, and you on Sundays, while I did my homework, since I was in 7th grade, growing up on the Peninsula. My exposure to you on KSAN was what got me started reading Rolling Stone, too. I cannot tell you how much my exposure to both of these media has shaped my life.

I had to move my mom to Bellaken a few years ago … Bellaken has been a godsend. The staff is wonderful, friendly, always positive and caring! Putting one's loved one in a well-caring nursing home can be a huge, unexpected (healing) blessing for everyone involved.

My mom has been reading (the Chronicle) faithfully, from cover to cover, for at least 60 years. When I called her today, she told me specifically not to make a special trip to buy one. She already had figured out how to get a copy of the article today, LOL.

Again, I just wanted to let you know how much I have appreciated your influence in my pop culture life and I hope to run into you at Bellaken someday soon. I have gotten to meet many other dutiful Chinese children there.  

Dede added a note about her brother, Jonathan:  “Today is his birthday. What a great present for our family: mom and my brother are in the paper ;-).”

What a present for all of us. I’ve shared Dede’s email, and an ensuing exchange, with my own family members. Suddenly, Bellaken Garden is more than a visit to Room 214 and chats with nurses, staffers and therapists.

I spoke with Dede for the first time a few days ago. Her mom is 85, she said. So she was in her mid-forties when she listened to my Sunday afternoon show on KSAN, the pioneer free-form rock station. Dede was maybe 12. “She loved it when you started saying a few words in Chinese,” she said.

So now I have a new project: To bring June a few air checks from those shows of long ago, when, unbeknownst to us, we made our first connection.

Meantime, June and her daughter shared a photo of the young June Kwei, in 1944, posing for a newspaper ad for Klein Jewelers in Chinatown, where she worked.

RANDOM NOTES: Speaking of radio connections, I’m doing a stint on a show called “My Turn,” an hour-long program in which a celebrity (and, sometimes, people like me) gets to spin favorite tunes, with no format rules. This is for KPRI in San Diego, and sister station “100.3 and The Sound” in Los Angeles. It airs on Sunday, Jan. 8 on both stations. They stream online; just Google one of them at the appointed time and hit “Listen Live.” Artists on my hour include Al Green, Chris Isaak, Amy Winehouse, the Eagles, Mayer Hawthorne and Shelby Lynne. Good stuff … If you’re looking for a beautiful, interesting, yet low-priced book of photography, check out San Francisco and the Bay Area: The Haight-Ashbury Edition, by Dick Evans. Dazzling shots of people, places and things. He asked me to write the foreword and a couple of chapter intros, and it was a pleasure just going over the photos. Available at his daughter’s bookstore, The Booksmith on Haight Street (Booksmith.com), or on his photography site, Intransitimages.com. A bargain at $29.95 …

It’s short shrift time.

I have a life that’s ripe (and slightly wrinkled) for blogs and tweeting; for facebooking and updating.

I’m just no good at it. My last column on AsianConnections was about the memorial in late July for my sister Shirley. My last posting on the authors’ site, Redroom, was about a radio promo tour I did (20 stops, all on the phone in my home office) for my Eagles book. On my own home page, the last thing was about hanging with Johnny Depp at UC Berkley – in mid-October.That was for a Q&A after a screening of his movie, The Rum Diary.

Pathetic. But hey, when you’re busy having a life, it’s not easy stopping and writing about it -- although hundreds of thousands of people apparently do. I hear Steve Martin is an inveterate Tweeter, and he’s kind of a busy guy. But I can’t do it. Backstage with Depp, I realized that it was the perfect time to post on Twitter: “We’re about to go on stage; students are screaming already”—something like that. But Johnny and director Bruce Robinson were chatting; I had to pay attention.  So, no tweets from this twit.

Bottom line: It’s time to catch up and, with apologies, to give the following events & incidents short shrift.

SANTANA: On Oct. 21, four days after the on-stager with Depp, at Cal, I was at Mission High School, where Carlos Santana was a student in the late Sixties, soon after arriving from the streets of Tijuana. That, he once told me, was where he learned about music and life. But, at Mission High, joined by members of his band and special guests, including the great Edward James Olmos (whose stint as one of the villains on Dexter had just begun), Santana and Olmos imparted words of wisdom and inspiration to the assembled student body. Carlos advised that they find their passion. “We talk about jobs,” he said. “I never worked a day in my life, because I love what I do.” He jammed with members of Mission High’s guitar club on “Oye Como Va,” giving eight young men the thrill of their lives; then, with Olmos helping out on percussion, and with wife Cindy Blackman on fierce drums, he performed a mini-concert. He also visited classrooms, spoke with the school’s media students, and sat for a video interview with me, for his Milagro Foundation and for BAMmagazine.com to use.

Check out the BAM site; a clip of our session should be up there soon.

TAJ MAHAL: Another day, another interview: For a new series of onstage chats with musicians, the Jewish Community Center of San Francisco paired me with the great Taj Mahal, a pioneer of world music (before it got that tag): a blues player who also did doo-wop, folk, Delta blues, jazz, Caribbean, Hawaiian,  and reggae, and, why not, even a Monkees song. One of his first albums in the early 70’s was called Take a Giant Step, and the title tune, which we DJ’s on KSAN played a lot, turned out to be a Carole King-Gerry Goffin song first cut by the Monkees.  Taj, of course, made it his own. Although the event was advertised as an interview, he brought along a gleaming National guitar, a banjo and a mini-banjo and performed maybe five songs.  The audience, including David Rubinson, producer of his seminal first albums, lapped it up, and laughed at my one stab at a joke: I was so impressed by Henry Fredericks taking on the name Taj Mahal, I said, that for a short time in the ‘70s, I changed my name to Stone Henge. Big laugh, I swear…

BLUE CHRISTMASES:  On KSAN on Sundays (which is what I did when I wasn’t at Rolling Stone or on the road), I used to do this stupid DJ trick in December. I’d say I wanted to sing Elvis’ “Blue Christmas,” and, just like Presley did, kicked off the song a cappella.  A line in, I’d stop and say I’d screwed up, and could we start again? And then I’d spin the record, and thousands of listeners would think (if they weren’t really thinking) that I sounded just like Presley.

That was in the ‘70s. In more recent decades, with thanks to karaoke, I’ve done “Blue Christmas” off the air, and in public. Maybe once a year, until this year. It got ridiculous. I did it at Book Passage in Corte Madera with Kurt Huget on guitar after a reading of my Eagles book. Two days later, Dec. 6, I performed it at the holiday luncheon of the Broadcast Legends in Berkeley – my third time doing Elvis for the social group of veteran radio & TV pros. In the audience, Stan Bunger, KCBS morning co-anchor and guitarist for the the Eyewitness Blues Band, decided I should join his group of CBS staffers the next morning in front of Macy’s downtown. They were part of a four-hour music show to raise money for the Salvation Army. With DJ Don Bleu emceeing, I wished everyone a “blue, blue Don Bleu Christmas.”  A few days later, same song, different band—this time on Radio Valencia, a not exactly legal station in the Mission. DJ Quarterman Jack produces a Hillbilly Hoot, live audience and all, on the very local air and online (radiovalencia.fm). Last time out, I did Johnny Cash. This time, what else but Elvis? I also did it at a wine tasting party with friends, and, finally, on the 13^th, did my annual holiday appearance for the seniors gathered for lunch and song at the Berkeley Chinese Community Church. Kurt Huget, again, on guitar; George Yamasaki on piano for maybe eight tunes, including “Silver Bells” (“as shoplifters rush home with their treasures…”) and “Blue Christmas.” Done? Not quite yet. After lunch, with George in tow, I visited my mother at Bellaken Garden, a skilled nursing facility in Oakland, and we wound up doing an improv mini-show, with my Mom in the front row.  And, on the eve of Christmas Eve, at Kathi Goldmark & Sam Barry’s foodfest and singalong, one last round of those blue memories.

That’s eight times. Boy, do I feel blue!

RANDOM NOTES: Thanks to the Broadcast Legends and the California Historical Radio Society. In December, I got the Legends’ “Broadcast Legend of the Year” Award, and CHRS’s “Charles D. ‘Doc’ Herrold Award,” named after the inventor of radio. Not for any particular achievement, I don’t think, but maybe because I love radio and have enjoyed writing about it in the SF Chronicle, and elsewhere, for three decades … The Roxie Theater, an indie movie house in the Mission District, invited me to introduce its screening of the Paul McCartney doc, The Love We Make, as a fundraiser for MusiCares, the Grammy people’s charity organization. It was fun, flashing a photo of Paul and me, looking bored (or feigning nonchalance) in an office – probably in a stadium somewhere along Wings’ 1976 itinerary. The film – of McCartney in New York after Sept. 11, 2001, preparing for The Concert for New York and meeting people in Manhattan – captured the Paul I knew: always perfectly at ease, whether with Bill Clinton or raving strangers on the streets. Nonchalant – and not faking it … And speaking of strangers, I was driving up Market Street and stopped at a light when a young man rushed up, waving a CD and indicating that he wanted to give it to me. Why not? I’ve checked out several tracks and may well play one on my show on WTF, a  radio station I can’t say much about, because it’s not licensed. But it’ll be on the air somewhere in Michigan. And that's how music promotion works. Sometimes …

FINALLY: Thanks to Lidia Bastianich and the producers of her holiday special on PBS, Lidia Celebrates America.  Early in 2011, she visited San Francisco for one of the four segments that made up her show, about how different cultures celebrate holidays: Jewish, Mexican, Italian and Chinese. My sister Shirley served as her guide through Chinatown. Bastianich, well known New York restaurateur, chef and cookbook author, dedicated the program to Shirley, who passed away in June.  It was very difficult to watch. But it also was good to see her again.

I strolled onto the stage at U.C. Berkeley’s Wheeler Auditorium after the screening of The Rum Diary, faced about 700 people and said, “Hello, I’m Johnny Depp.”

It was like being a Beatle. They knew full well who I am not, but unleashed a blend of screams and squeals, along with laughter. They could afford to be good-natured, because they knew that the real Johnny Depp was in the house.

Rum Diary is his latest film, and it’s based on an early novel (circa 1960) by his late buddy Hunter S. Thompson. Depp, who portrayed Dr. Thompson in Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, had planned to produce Rum Diary with him, but Hunter took h is own life in 2005. Depp made it a personal mission to get this film completed.

Now, he was in Berkeley. He’d chosen to screen the film for students rather than the usual mix of media and radio contest winners. Cal offered tickets to film, English and journalism majors. Apparently, the great majority of students in those fields are female and Depp devotees.

Anyway, the publicists for the film asked me to moderate the Q&A with Johnny, and, of course, I agreed. We’d never met, but we have several bonds, and he told me of a few more. There’s Hunter, of course, from Rolling Stone days in the 70’s and beyond. And there are the Doors. I wrote a book in 2006 that was meant to be partnered with a documentary. The book beat the film by about four years, but the documentary featured narration by…Johnny Depp.

Backstage, he told me that he was a fan of my book on Gram Parsons, Hickory Wind, and knew that Keith Richards (his dear old dad in the Piratesof the Caribbean movies) had wanted to produce a film about Parsons.

On stage, once the screams died down, he, along with Bruce Robinson, the Rum Diary’s writer and director, fielded a couple of questions from me, and then we invited students to take over the questioning. Most of them were good, but several coeds who’d lined up at the two microphones were there just to say they’d spoken with Depp. They didn’t really have a question. At least not one they could ask in public. Johnny was gracious about it all; he's used to this. Bruce warmed up to the crowd, too.

Then, one guy claimed that he’d seen a boom mike in one shot and asked if that was intentional. Depp and Robinson told him that it was a ceiling fan he saw, but the student persisted until Depp, who does have an edge about him, asked, “What’s your f---- point?” Later, backstage, he and Robinson got into Hunter S. Thompson Gonzo mode. ”Let’s find that kid and kick him in the nuts,” said Johnny.

Robinson, before the Q&A, had told me he hated appearing in front of college students. “They’re all smartasses,” he said.

Still, the film’s promoters invited everyone to hang out afterwards at a nearby bar, Shattuck Down Low, where Depp had a favorite band set up. Its leader was Chuck E. Weiss, the real life inspiration for Rickie Lee Jones’ hit, “Chuck E.’s in Love.” Her former boyfriend, Tom Waits, who lives in the Bay Area, showed up for dinner with Depp and popped into the club.

Oddly, there was no mob scene at the Down Low. It was all very easy going. And then we realized that the great majority of the Cal students were not old enough to get in.  

Behind VIP ropes, Depp enjoyed himself. We chatted some more, and he met Dianne and our nephew-in-law, Matt Pavao, an elementary school administrator and a long-time fan of Thompson’s writing. (He was a big hit with the kids the next day.)  I gave Johnny a copy of The Rice Room, which includes an anecdote about the time Hunter dropped in on a Rolling Stone gathering in Palm Springs and dosed the guests with some hallucinogenic drug. I also gave him copies of photos from that evening. Evidence.

By the time I got home to San Francisco, there were four or five videos of snippets of the  Q&A on YouTube, along with online reports that he jumped onstage and played with the band. By the next morning, the story was on Perez Hilton’s blog, on Hollywood Reporter, and on numerous other sites.

It’s been a long time, but it was fun hanging out with a rock star, which is what Depp is, through and through. In fact, a few days later, at the supermarket, I spotted a tabloid headline about him being seen falling-down drunk at some nightclub in Los Angeles. Fact or fiction, it’s another page in his own rum diary.

I just flew in from Canada and a few dozen other cities, and boy, are my ears tired.

Let me explain: It was a radio tour, as it’s called, for my new book, Eagles: Taking It to the Limit. The publisher, Running Press, set up 20 stops – mostly morning shows from coast to coast – from 5 to 8:20 a.m. – all from my phone at home.

            By 6:30, half way through, my left ear was feeling it. Before then, I’d also gone through a couple of technical glitches. My cordless phone ran out of juice, and I had to run (quietly) from my office to the kitchen upstairs. And my recorder malfunctioned.

But it was still better than going to 20 bookstores in 20 cities. The Canada call – from Astral Radio – reached 83 stations in 40-something cities.

            And I met a wide range of broadcasters, from DJs in smaller towns like Lima, Ohio to news talk anchors in Atlanta and St. Louis, to Philadelphia radio legend John DeBella and rock artist turned morning jock Greg Kihn, himself an author. He knows all about th is 4 a.m. wakeup routine. Only he does it five days a week. One a book is plenty enough for me.

            I had 19 chats ranging from five to ten minutes, the last being with Premiere Networks, which itself services 60 stations with show prep material. The only flake-out was a station in Norfolk, Nebraska, scheduled near the end. My ear was most grateful.

             The Eagles book is one of two I have out right now. University of California Press just published an expanded and updated version of my 1994 memoirs, The Rice Room. No radio tour, thank god. But on Friday, Oct. 28, I’m doing an event in Oakland, in Chinatown, where the story begins. Check my calendar and act fast. It’s Friday!

PS: On one of the TV shows I did for The Rice Room, the host said to come to this site to buy the. Sorry, but I haven't built a store here. Most bookstores and, of course, Amazon, has both books on their shelves. thank you.

Okay. It’s been three long months since my sister died. June 18. I couldn’t write about Shirley – younger than me by less than two years – until maybe her memorial, which was in late July. I figured I’d have to write something for that event – a private celebration of her amazing life, at one of her favorite restaurants, the Yank Sing in San Francisco. I’d just post whatever I came up with, and entitle it Remembering Shirley.

If only it were that simple. As her memorial began, we got word that our mother in Oakland, too frail, at 89, to attend, was in need of immediate medical care.

Since early August, she’s been in a nursing facility in Oakland, and, along with family members, I’ve been occupied with visits and all the stuff that goes with medical crises and elder care.

At home, meantime, we’re going through remodeling, and I’ve been uprooted from my office. My eeePad tablet is my BFFA (best friend for awhile).

So, through these last terrible months, I plod on, cranking out my Radio Waves column in the SF Chronicle, beginning research on a book about Little Feat, and fulfilling various other commitments, from officiating weddings (one in May; the other just last weekend), and starting work on Oakland High’s Class of ‘62’s 50^th reunion. (I was somehow voted permanent class president, thus responsible for reunions, but, rather wisely, I’ve appointed a wonderful committee member as chair.)

So you understand why I’ve been absent—from my own home page, from AsianConnections.com, from facebook (except to post photos from the memorial, and a few short messages), and from Twitter).

But life not only goes on; parts of it call for trying to spread the word about certain projects. That’s how it is when your work involves publishing books. So: I’ve got two books out just about now. First, my memoirs, The Rice Room, originally issued in 1992, now updated, Including two dozen photos and published by the University of California Press. I wrote the new final chapters before Shirley’s quite sudden death (just six weeks after being diagnosed with leukemia). There is irony in my remarks about how our family has suffered relatively few losses.

In October, The Eagles: Taking It to the Limit, is out, so I’ll be visiting classic rock stations, to be sure.

And so I’m out there, again, just like I’ve been for the five or six previous books.

But it’ll never be the same.

Ah, the rewards of being borderline recognizable:

I'm crossing a street in the Upper Market area of San Fran, wondering what happened to a jacket button that had been dangling loosely for a week or so. Behind me, a man shouts, "Mr. Torres! Mr. Torres!"

I look back and a stranger is holding up an item: my button. "I saw this fall from you," he says. I thank him and silently wonder how this sharp-eyed dude knew me. Of course, he did call me by the wrong name. But, hey, I did say borderline recognizable.

Same day, or maybe the day before. Google Alert, which usually leads to stories or books of mine, alerted me to a campaign to raise money for medical expenses of a dying cat named Ben Fong-Torres.

I know what curiosity did to the cat, but I had to go to the Facebook page. Sure enough, there was the cat. He was a black and white cutie, and, according to his owners and friends, was down to his last hours. I sent in a few bucks and words of encouragement.

Days later, I got a card from Maria and Luke Montoya. In long hand (a rarity these tweety days), Maria explained the naming of their pet, who was "Mortimer" when she adopted him. He was too "cool and stylish" to be a Mortimer, she wrote. "As we are Hispanics adopting an Asian (Siamese) kitty, we playfully decided we wanted to honor his newfound 'biculturalism' with a name that reflected it. As huge music lsovers & wannabe music writers, your name was PERFECT. Illogical as it is, there's something comforting in knowing the original BFT is still around."

I am. And so is the more stylish Ben Fong-Torres, out there somewhere, doing the Stray Cat Strut.

In my report on our week in New York City, I mentioned Finnerty's, the bar in East Village that's devoted to the SF Giants and 49ers. I didn't include a photo, but now I've come across something far, far better. A facebook correspondent sent me this video, recorded as the Giants won the World Series. This celebration, in an Irish tavern on 2nd Ave. & E. 13th in New York, easily matches the insanity we witnessed all around San Francisco that November evening. If you're a Giants fan, have some tissues ready, as Finnerty's Goes Bananas

It's time to try adding a video to this site, and what better one than 'One on One,' the PBS interview show hosted by award-winning journalist Maria Hinojosa? I flew to Boston in late '09 for the chat, and it kicked off the 2010 season. But not in my own hometown, San Francisco. What-EV.

Anyway, for Asian Pacific American Heritage Month, KQED aired the show the other day, and I mentioned it on facebook. But not everyone could catch it, so I provided a link to it, since it lives on the One on One/WGBH site. So, here's the full 25-minute segment, including me serenading Maria with a little Dean Martin. One on One

And if you're short on time, here's a 3-minute teaser that's on
YouTube

My memoirs, The Rice Room, which was published in 1994 by Hyperion, is coming out again this fall, thanks to the University of California Press.

I've added a new last chapter and a couple dozen photos. Here's my page from the UCP catalog of fall releases.

Download: rice-room-ucp-page.pdf (169.1 KB)

When Dianne and I scheduled our visit to New York City for a week, beginning in late April, we weren’t planning on the predicted weather (thunderstorms) or on the killing of Osama Bin Laden. Our only sure bets were some nice restaurants.

Were we surprised!

I suppose we should’ve known that our first morning in Manhattan – Friday, April 29 – would be Kate and William’s wedding, but we didn’t. We don’t follow weddings, except on The Bachelor and the Today show. Anyway, we had a full schedule, with friends joining us for dinners almost every evening, and with me running off every afternoon to meetings with Rolling Stone buddies and various other friends and editor types.

The most momentous day came on Sunday, Dianne and my wedding anniversary. We booked dinner at one of New York City’s best and most beautiful restaurants, Del Posto, in the Meatpacking District. (We’d been there before, and said Hi to both co-owner Mario Batali and visitor Tyra Banks.)

Anyway, we were staying in my agent’s apartment, in West Village, and as we hit the lobby on the way out, we spotted Seth Meyers, head writer and fake news anchor on  Saturday Night Live. He was telling the doorman, “I am so wiped out,” or something to that effect. He’d just returned from Washington, D.C., where he’d MC’d the White House Correspondents Dinner, a light-hearted evening highlighted by President Obama doing comedy, along with other guests. Meyers did a joke about Osama Bin Laden, and the president laughed heartily. That was on Saturday, and history reveals that, by then, he’d given the order to take out U.S. Enemy Number One.

After a marvelous dinner with our good friend Paula Batson, I turned on the TV. It was 11:30, and the news was out from Pakistan. Along with many other thoughts, I wondered what Seth Meyers was thinking – and writing.

I also thought of Michael Lomonaco, a chef who’s become a friend over the years, and who had invited Dianne and me to join him and his wife for dinner on Tuesday. He was the chef at Windows on the World, atop one of the twin towers. On September 11, he lost 72  employees, and another 92 people visiting the restaurant perished. The chef escaped death because he was on the ground level, shopping when the plane hit.

“I was stunned at the news,” he said at our dinner, at Michael White’s Osteria Morini. “I feel relief.” He told us that he’d just been on The View, at the invitation of Barbara Walters. She had interviewed him shortly after 9/11. Now, with the news of the killing of Bin Laden, she reached out again.

At right, the Lomonacos with us, the F-T's.

IN MANHATTAN, I visited Dakila Divina, my old editor at Parade magazine; he’s now at Nomad Editions, which produces top-flight magazines for mobile devices. In fact, I just did a piece for Real Eats, about a most unusual pop-up Chinese restaurant. Except the chef, who’s Korean, says it’s not Chinese. See for yourself, here: Real Eats

I also checked in with the new editors of Parade, an editor at Da Capo Press who has a book idea for me, and with Jann Wenner, publisher of Rolling Stone. It’s always fun, and a little weird, to visit my old magazine. My last byline was when Michael Jackson died, but you never know when another one might pop up. And I made time to drop in on Morrison Gallery, both in the Bowery and in Soho. The latter is the size of a walk-in closet, albeit with great, historic rock photos; the Bowery gallery is hosting a sensational exhibit of the work of Lynn Goldsmith, a photographer who clearly has All Access: The Stones, Dylan, BRUUUUCE, Madonna, Marley, The Clash and more. All stunning.

In San Francisco, I’d read a piece in the New York Times about Finnerty’s, a bar that had turned itself over to fans of the San Francisco Giants, 49ers, and the city itself. I dropped by during a lull, but it was fun to see, in the East Village, a tavern featuring the Golden Gate Bridge, memorabilia of the World Series run, and a Joe Montana jersey.

Evenings were for dinners, and highlights, besides Del Posto (elegant) and Osteria Morini (new and NOISY), were Felidia, Lidia Bastianich’s signature Italian restaurant, and the National, where Zoe Feigenbaum, daughter of a good friend, Josh, was turning out heaping plates of ribs, fish, steak and other comforting food.

Chef Zoe

No matter how massive Manhattan may be, it’s a small town. Through Facebook, a couple of friends from Marin County let us know that they were in New York, too, and were on the same flight home. They helped us while away the wait at JFK International, where the president, having visited fire and police stations, along with 9/11 victims’ families at the World Trade Center site, was departing. He needed his airspace, I guess.

Soon enough, we were up in the air ourselves, leaving a most memorable week—and city—behind.