Day I stopped counting

So I am officially here now so I guess it's wise to stop the whole counting thing, it might get a bit confusing (I suck at math). I love my place, I love my neighborhood (colorful, hip and a bit ghetto...right up my alley), and I am still in love with my dog. She has already settled in perfectly to our giant temporary room, known now in the house as little scruff (that translated well for both Japanese and Swiss apparently). The apartment is an old Victorian style place, insane molding in every corner, including young boys molded into my window sills (ummm K). My bay windows overlook Mission St. and Valencia, a very happening part of town, including Goood Frickin Chicken across the street which I of course hit up my first night here (name says it all) and a nail salon below ($7 manicure what what).
My first full day in SF was Sunday and boy was it a doozy. I spent the morning returning my fabulous whip of a rental car, almost shed a tear before I quickly remembered I had a strong hatred for it for 2 full days of the trip (Desert + Impala = bitchy, cranky Carissa) and said so long to journey and holla to life in the Bay area. I took Ella for what was meant to be a cute stroll up Bernal Hill until I realized that Bernal Hill was really a small mountain in the city and wearing flip flops and hot coffee in hand were not the approach to take to said mountain. Athletic shoes and water are definite necessities for this urban hike. I then continued my urban wanderings to far away North Beach where Christina was having a soiree of sorts (apparently Sunday Fundays are always in full effect here), where I walked another 2 + miles and finally showed up sweaty and dehydrated, adorable i'm sure. 30 odd people piled on to one roof top overlooking the most gorgeous view of the bay and golden gate bridge, can't get much better than that (oh wait, and she let me put on MY ipod so I got to be all uppity about music selections - thanks Rob for all the new jams).
After leaving swank rooftop gathering, I hit up a great Italian restaurant called E' tutte quoi (wrong spelling) where Maddelene worked (we met sailing) and I enjoyed one of the most ridiculous solo dining experiences to date. The Italian owner and his mafia quickly called me over to there table where they proceeded to force feed me pasta, red wine and olive oil, all while making me keep my fabulous hat on because "I looked so beautiful in it, like the 60's"(thick italian accent and over exaggerated hand gestures apply). So of course I ate, and of course I sat in a restaurant wearing a giant hat. Why not? After convincing them I had had enough and squirming my way out, I eventually made it on the bus home.

You probably thought that was the rest of the story but it goes on. I was confused as to which bus route was best so I asked the only other person waiting, he happened to look similar in age and harmless enough. We ended up going in the same direction and chatting the whole way there. He had just moved here 4 months ago from none other than Boston. Had a few laughs, exchanged numbers and off we went. What a first night. Rooftop bbq, authentic Italian mobsters, genuine interaction on public transportation, huh? I love you so far SF.