I’m a dreamer at heart, proudly born and raised in San Francisco—a city that covers just 49 square miles but was heaven on earth for me. Every corner of The City (as we natives affectionately call it) has been a part of my life. No area ever felt too distant. With wide eyes and an open heart, I’ve always welcomed the world around me. I find joy in creativity, wonder, and discovering new possibilities—whether that’s through international work adventures or dreaming up the next exciting idea. Even though San Francisco was my hometown, my passport has taken me to many amazing places and introduced me to wonderful people, shaping me in countless ways. I carry pieces of these experiences and friendships with me wherever I go. Above all, I treasure my family, friends, and those small, meaningful moments that keep my spirit alive and thriving. I never want my curiosity to fade away.
I enjoy classical art, especially pieces by the French Impressionist painters.I’ve enjoyed visiting museums around the world, and one of the best ever is right in the city of Chicago. The Art Institute of Chicago is home to a massive collection of art, including this particular piece titled “Two Sisters (On the Terrace.”)
I don’t know what it is about this painting; however, each time I visit Chicago, I make a beeline to the museum to say hello to my two “girlfriends.” The colors are vibrant, exciting, and iridescent. When you look at this painting even for a moment, it seems to come alive. I have a small reproduction of this painting that is hanging in my office. Each time I look at it, I think of how wonderful the original would look hanging in my living room. Hey, if Renoir had been my brother, perhaps he would have given it to me as a birthday present. We can dream, can’t we?
One of my friends’ grandfathers was a war hero and later author of the book Run Silent, Run Deep, who was assigned to it. Now, you ask: what does that have to do with a movie and the Geneva Drive-In?
In high school, my girlfriend Diana (of Junior Prom fame) and I double-dated with another couple and headed to the drive-in to see this movie. Like every other teenager at the drive-in, we were far more interested in making out than watching the movie. We probably rolled and dived more times than Clark Gable did during the film, yet we came up for air regularly and returned home thrilled with our encounter.
We had the Geneva Drive-In. Our very own submarine.
My dad brought my mom and me home in style on the day I was born. My dad had a green 1939 Chevy sedan (he bought it new) that looked like the image; we had this car until I was about eight years old, so I have a clear memory of it. My dad called it the “Green Hornet,” which pretty well infringed on the comic book character for anyone growing up at the time. Here I am, decades later, and I’m still able to smell the inside of that car. I suppose this because my sister threw up in the back seat, and it never faded; the seats were covered with a light tan, fuzzy, carpet-like fabric. One puke and it was there forever.
Each summer, we’d all pile into the car for our trek to Yosemite for a camping vacation. My mom hated every single second of these camping expeditions, especially when we’d pull over to let the car radiator cool off, and we’d try to take a drink of our not-so-cool water from the bag. I hear her voice asking why we didn’t stop at that Standard Oil station and not on the side of the hot roadway. I sure wish I had that stupid canvas bag today.
We began our journey with chunky wooden pencils and a lesson book where we traced letters. I always loved the smell of those pencils (and still do), and I kept asking for a new one more often than was probably fair! Luckily, in 1946, the San Francisco school system had an endless supply of them. When I was a kid, cursive writing lessons began in kindergarten. Every school set aside time to learn this skill – if you were left-handed, too bad. You did the same sessions.
As I moved forward, we used real pens that needed to be dipped in ink, which is why there was a hole in the desk. Our classes were called penmanship, and I truly loved them. To this day, I still avoid using ballpoint pens; instead, I have a collection of fountain pens and Japanese-made felt-tip pens. Young Japanese students writing in Kanji or Katakana with a pencil just doesn’t seem right. Students all over now write in a kind of printing that feels a bit strange to me. It all looks quite similar wherever I see it. I suppose they think my use of pens and ink is old-fashioned. I wonder what my family will do with the pens and pencils when I’m no longer here.
My friend, Fred, was one of them. I stood alongside members of Fred’s family and friends to honor my friend for the last time. He was a neighbor, church companion, daredevil driver, enthusiastic gardener, and a wonderful dad and husband. He lived right up the street from me; he and his lovely wife, Ruth, drove past me countless times each week. If they could see my car in the driveway, they’d invariably stop by to “visit,” as they say in the South.
In Church, Ruth would often sit behind me, and Fred, in his self-appointed role of photographer-in-chief, would busy himself snapping photos of anyone who came into his view. They were loved and respected by everyone.While Fred had so much to be proud of, he spoke most enthusiastically about an “Honor” flight that he and other veterans took to Washington, DC. The flight and all expenses are paid by a local merchant; the group flies round-trip to DC on a chartered plane; they are met by volunteers who take them on extended guided tours of the military monuments and sites in Washington.
He simply could not stop talking about the trip and what it meant to the group, and to him personally. I happened to be at the airport here when one of the flights was boarding for a trip (not Fred’s). Before boarding, the veterans were like children on their first outing; they were so excited they couldn’t sit still. When the plane taxied out for take-off, two airport fire trucks came alongside, giving it a gigantic 2-barrel water cannon send-off. It was a beautiful sight; everyone around me and I cheered as loud as possible for them. Fred, I miss you; I am so proud to have been a part of your final ceremony.
Today I replaced my older flag with a brand-new one. Today was the perfect day to put the new one on display. I love flying my flag, and every morning I start my day by putting it out for the day ahead. Here’s a photo of the new one—welcoming Memorial Day, 2026. Please join me in welcoming my newest addition to our neighborhood.
The Jamaica Inn in Ocho Rios is precisely this place.Have you ever checked into a hotel and didn’t want to leave? Ever. This is the place, my friends. I’ve spent many nights here, and they have to kick me out when it’s time to leave. It’s small, luxurious, and incredibly romantic. Everything about this resort is designed to give you the best experience ever.
You will always remember your stay at the Jamaica Inn and will want to go back. The accommodations are cozy and unforgettable. I’ve stayed in the Verandah suite and the Premier Verandah Suite, both of which are worth the price. Dining is enjoyable; gentlemen must wear a collared shirt in the restaurant, replacing the previous jacket-and-tie requirement. The outdoor area is lovely and perfect for breakfast by the water. If you want an experience to cherish, take endless happy selfies, and remember forever, this is the place. Stay at the Jamaica Inn.
Buenos Aires was always at the top of my bucket list, so one weekend, I flew from Miami to see why. When I landed, I instantly fell in love. As my taxi headed to my hotel, I couldn’t wait to explore the city I had longed to visit. Every moment of the taxi ride felt magical, and I sensed that I belonged there, even in a past life.
I arrived at my hotel and started exploring within 20 minutes. I took a familiar route through San Telmo in Buenos Aires. Anyone who has seen Evita will recognize this area. It’s the essence of old Buenos Aires, and I felt right at home. I had only been in the country for about 90 minutes at that point.
I walked down an old street and saw a bar with an open door. I hadn’t eaten breakfast, but this was the perfect place to start my time in Argentina. The bar was long and inviting. I sat down, and the bartender quietly made a cortado for me, along with a small glass of an unfamiliar liquor. It wasn’t the time to think, so I drank both right away and felt like a local.
A few minutes later, an older couple took to the dance floor. With a beautiful tango playing, they moved like soulmates, sweeping, dipping, and turning in time to the music. In that moment, I wished to be a Tango champion, twirling with the lovely older lady around the floor to the rhythm. Unfortunately, that didn’t happen. Still, it was a wonderful welcome for me as a first-time visitor to this amazing city.
Not long after moving to Bangkok, Thailand, we got a small dog from a work colleague. She had an uncertain background, but grew into a 50+-pound dog who had 8 puppies under our bed. Our friends named her Shaytoon, meaning something in another language, and we decided to keep that name.
She quickly became an amazing family companion. When our youngest daughter was born, she watched over her protectively. When a visitor leaned down to touch my daughter’s hair, Shaytoon moved closer and rested her open jaw against the visitor’s arm. She didn’t bite, but clearly showed she was there to protect our daughter.
In another memorable incident, a grocery delivery boy teased her during his deliveries to our house. One day, he stood by the front door and started mocking her. To everyone’s surprise, Shaytoon ran at the screen door and burst through it, chasing after the boy. He ran away quickly, and when he returned the next day, he made sure not to disturb our dog.
A few years later, we moved to Hong Kong, where strict animal quarantine laws required us to keep her in a shelter for 180 days. We visited her regularly, but it was a long separation for everyone. Finally, she came home with us, showing a new tattoo in her ear as proof of her good health.
Fast forward to our return to San Francisco. Shaytoon joined us and quickly adapted to life as a City Dog, enjoying rides and walks everywhere. From picnics at Stinson Beach to runs on the Marina Green, we were always together. I’m sure she saw herself as just another eager member of our family.
Years passed, and like many dogs, she got sick, had hearing loss, and trouble moving. This is a tough time for any family, and we faced the hard choice of putting her to sleep. One day, while our daughters were at school and my wife was out, I took Shaytoon on her last ride in our Volvo, with the sunroof open and her head out of the window. We went to the Marina Green for one last walk before heading to the Vet nearby. It was time, and I was the only one who could do this. It still hurts to remember that day.
As I took her into the doctor’s office, I hugged her and nuzzled her soft blond fur, something I had done many times. I took off her collar and her 1978 San Francisco dog license before she was taken inside; in moments, she was gone. I drove home heartbroken, realizing we would never be together again. I’ve kept the license tag all these years (it’s the image in this posting.) She was a cherished family member, and I’m grateful for this reminder of our time together. Thanks for everything, Shaytoon.
Since I’ve lately been on a rip thinking (and writing) about some of my favorite hotels in the world, I have to include one of my all-time super-star hotels, the Royal Hawaiian Hotel in Honolulu.While I have stayed at many hotels in Waikiki, there’s only one Royal Hawaiian. Over the many years I’ve visited, the grounds around the hotel have changed, but the hotel remains the most marvelous, comfortable property in Honolulu.
There’s nothing else like it.On every visit, as soon as I check in, I head to the Mai Tai Bar for one of their world-class drinks, yes, their Mai Tai cocktail. It may not have been invented here, however, believe me, once you have one, it’s the Gold standard for any others that follow.For me, the Mai Tai bar is ground zero for the famed Hawaiian Spirit. In minutes, I’m lost in the sounds, smells, and luxury of the hotel. The beach is steps away; The Surf Room is right next to the bar, and their casual lunch menu offers many of my favorites, including their famous Surf Salad.
I’m not a big fan of the luau experience. However, their Royal Hawaiian Luau takes everyone back to a time when a luau was a real cultural experience. It’s held on the Royal’s Ocean Lawn, so everyone has a terrific view of the beach and Diamond Head.Guest rooms are incredible, especially the Queen Kapiolani suite, and while I enjoy the places in the tower, I always, always try to get a room in the “old” building. No matter where you stay, however, by the time you leave the Royal, you will have experienced the most beautiful part of Hawaii.Mahalo, my friends.
Are we there yet? 