Eating dinner at a cigar store

We took an unexpected nap in the hotel after the whale tour. When we woke up, it was already late in the afternoon and there were still items on our to-see list. We got on the MUNI and headed to the Mission. Multiple sources said this was the funky, hip area with culture and life, and that Valencia Street, in particular, was a happening spot. We descended the hill into the Mission and the temperature felt like it rose 10-15 degrees. We don't get what the fuss is about - Valencia Street to us was just like any other San Francisco side street (if not a bit seedier) and Mission Street itself was pretty much a dump. Filthy, smelly. Blah. Bogdan kept asking me, "where did you take me?"

We wrapped it up quickly and when we arrived back at the MUNI station our exhaustion strongly advised us against exploring Hayes Valley and Haight-Ashbury. We listened. We took the F line street car back to Union Square, and as it was already evening and the time for a people-watching-sit-in-the-cafe-with-a-pastry had long passed, we decided to do dinner. Bogdan is not a fan of Italian restaurants (he says it's pasta and tomatoes, what's the big deal?) but he had a craving for spaghetti and meatballs that night. Where do you find that in San Francisco? Well, in North Beach.

We walked to Columbus Avenue and made our way up the street while hearing the pleas from waiters in the doorways of basically empty restaurants trying to cajole us into dining there. On our first trip to North Beach we had a coffee at the Cigar Store (which is not a cigar store) and loved its ambiance. When we found out they actually served dinner entrees, we quickly snatched up a table by the big windows overlooking Washington Square. We lingered. The food took a while, which was fine, then we finished our glasses of Italian wine slowly. Then we ordered dessert. I got some prosecco. And we just sat and talked and watched the busy Fourth of July world fly by the window. When we finally finished the meal (2, maybe 2.5 hours later) we were full, happy, and tired.

The topic of fireworks came up - my position was that I've seen my fair share of fireworks and I'm not the biggest fan (especially when surrounded by drunken pyrotechnics who decide the city's fireworks show is just not cool enough so let's haphazardly shoot off our own in the middle of the crowd). I told Bogdan that I'd happily go see the San Francisco fireworks with him, but that I'd also be happy going back to the hotel (old folks, remember?). We chose the hotel. And when we had to wake up early the next morning, pack and check out, so we could drive back to Pleasanton for Bogdan's workday, we both agreed the decision had been a good one.