Monday, February 13, 2006
For desperate romantics, it's hard to imagine a city that burning the imagination more readily than San Francisco. I mean, where else in the world can you wave a crying goodbye from the running board of a cable car, the bittersweet foam of a Buena Vista Irish coffee still remaining on your lips, as it climbs through the mist and halfway to the stars? I know I get reddened just thinking about the sunlight streaking down California Street in September, silhouetting Nob Hill like a over-romantic 1940s movie starring Deborah Kerr.
And judging by the umpteen recordings of "I Left My Heart ...," the ever-present references to "the cold, gray city of love" and a six-year band atop the Romance Writers of America's most romantic cities list, there's no shortage of folks who consider San Francisco one big, sweaty bodice-ripper.
And judging by the umpteen recordings of "I Left My Heart ...," the ever-present references to "the cold, gray city of love" and a six-year band atop the Romance Writers of America's most romantic cities list, there's no shortage of folks who consider San Francisco one big, sweaty bodice-ripper.



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