Trip west a chance to share love for Ohio

Ihad long wanted to travel to California. At last, a couple of years ago, I had the opportunity to attend a work conference in — be still, my heart — San Francisco.

I learned a lot at the conference, met some cool folks from all over and especially enjoyed the closing presentation by human-rights activist Cleve Jones.

The conference, though, wasn’t the high

of the trip, which proved educational in ways beyond my expectations.

I spent some of my downtime walking Lombard Street (and learning just how out of shape I am and how much huffing and puffing I can do). The road is crazy-curvy — eight hairpin turns — and steep.

I drank an Irish coffee at the Buena Vista on Hyde Street (the bar that created the libation) and had an interesting chat with the bartender, who had been in San Francisco for 30-plus years. He hadn't planned to spend his life there, but he was happy with his choice. I was happy with my Irish coffee.

Naturally, I visited Ghirardelli Chocolate Co. (cue a Homer Simpson drooling sound) and enjoyed ridiculously decadent chocolate goodies, then I soaked up sunshine on Pier 39.

To get back to my hotel, I rode a cable car without paying (by accident).

A few days before I had to leave, I checked out the Japanese Tea Garden, near Golden Gate Park. It was exquisite — so verdant and peaceful. I’ve never seen gingko trees so big.

Still, the absolute

best part of my trip played out the night before I headed for home — and it had nothing to do with any tourist spot or landmark.

I spent a good bit of time that evening walking around the neighborhood known as the Castro District, enjoying the atmosphere (and the rainbow-painted crosswalks). As dinnertime approached, I began looking for a place to eat and happened on the charming Eureka Restaurant & Lounge.

The handsome waiter showed me to a table on the patio, a gorgeous area with just a few outdoor tables in a space lush with tropical plants. I was in heaven.

I ordered a drink and savored the experience for a while. Before long, a skinny guy entered

wearing a red T-shirt that said, “Friends don’t let friends live in Ohio.”

Now, hold on just a minute, I thought.

He sat at a table catty-corner from me. I asked him whether he was from Ohio. He said he’d never even visited.

I invited him to join me for dinner. We drank several cosmopolitans and ate fancy deviled eggs and delicious profiteroles while we talked and talked. The food, the drinks and, most of all, the company were divine.

I like to think I might have changed his mind about Ohio and Ohioans.

I’m excited for my next trip west.

Who knows what might happen?