The last time I was in San Francisco, I left my liver. That was nearly ten years ago, and this time I'd vowed not to repeat it. This time, I told myself, things would be different. This time I only had eighteen hours, and how much damage could I do in eighteen hours? As it turns out, plenty, without even trying.

En route to LA, a one night stayover in the city by the bay hardly lent itself to an opportunity for trouble. My niece put my traveling companion and I up for the night, and stuffed us with the best Peruvian grub I've ever had. Fortunately for us she was holding a job at Piqueo's, San Francisco's premier Peruvian restaurant, where she wined and dined us into the wee hours of the morning. My niece is awesome.

After a tenuous nights sleep - when sharing a bed with a strange pit bull who's a bed hog to boot, these things happen - we arose to coffee served to us with a San Franciscan flair that only someone having been a barista in a previous incarnation could affect. Did I mention my niece is awesome?

We slammed the coffees, bid farewell and put San Francisco in the rearview mirror, not having left ourselves enough time for so much as a Kodak moment on Haight. It was the shortest visit I'd ever made to San Francisco, save for the time as a kid when my father inadvertently stumbled onto Castro. Still, I was sleep deprived and nursing a major hangover on that long, long, unforgiving drive south to the place called La La Land.