I left my heart in San Samsonite.

I’ve been in the city by the bay for a conference. Let me just state again how much I love to travel on some one else’s dime. I’m not a freeloader, but I was raised to never order appetizers or dessert, and that first class is for people with more money than sense.

However …

I do love me a nice hotel. Especially a nice hotel with an incredible bar on the top floor, where I enjoyed a glass of port, a decadent dessert and a sunset falling on the Golden Gate Bridge. Life is good. And the conference I came out here to attend wasn’t bad, either.

If I lived in San Francisco, I’d have the greatest ass this world had ever seen. Like, people wouldn’t be able to look at my hind regions directly or their retinas would explode – sort of like looking directly at an eclipse.

The reasoning behind my behind? The hills. Lord almighty. I stayed on the crest of Nob Hill, which is within walking distance of Chinatown and Union Square. It’s downhill everywhere – and way, way uphill coming back. Like, waaaaaay uphill. Like, I was zig-zagging around blocks instead of just walking straight up the street because my little lungs needed a break. But my ass? I’m just positive that after two whole days of this, it’s looking fine.

The other thing about San Francisco that struck me was the backpacks.

Backpacks? Yes.

Now, I love me some handbags and lost count on my own collection somewhere around 35. So, I’m always interested in how people schlep their shit. Seems to me that to live in San Fran, you must own a backpack and pass some sort of coolness course on how to look suave while wearing said backpack.

One guy in my conference obviously wasn’t from the city. In lieu of carrying a backpack to the conference, he wore … a fannypack.

A grown man. Wore a fannypack. At a conference. A conference that didn’t involve any sort of wilderness adventure unless you count the long line at the loo. What the hell?

I was tempted to pull him aside in a random act of kindness, but decided against it for whatever reason. It made me think of a boy I had a wicked crush on in college, a boy who was perfect and darling and perfect – until the day I saw him sporting a fannypack at the rec center.

Because I am shallow and a cold, heartless bitch, my crush was quickly absolved.

But thanks to San Fran’s love of the backpack, I will be back. She cannot deny my affection.