Six a.m. in New York to One p.m. in San Francisco

The haze moved in over Manhattan late yesterday; after a day up and down in the skyscrapers of some of our country's leading media companies, and a relaxing decompression meeting in the Gramercy Park Hotel, it was a night of reporting, writing, and publishing from my large (but cheap) hotel room at the Hotel Metro.



Around midnight, I went up to the roof terrace to check out the view and my memory. But the Empire State Building, so brilliant just last week, looked like the Golden Gate Bridge in heavy fog: You knew it was up there, you just couldn't see anything, except for some dull wattage from its lights at the bottom of the fogbelt.

Three girls giggled over in the far corner. I stood there for a moment, shivered, and went back to my room, for a couple more hours of work.

Up by six for a quick breakfast and off to JFK, where I once again jumped on an earlier flight. We landed in the rain after 1 p.m. local time, after vectoring in over the north and east bay.

Ten days: five here and five out there. If I am supposed to feel jet-lagged, it's taking its time to hit me. Mainly, it's good to be home, as always, and I think this will be Pizza Friday Night at Dad's House.

Some people live a cross-country lifestyle, I know; and in the past, I was one of those folks as well. A life combining the Bay Area with New York City has a lot of appeal, and there's just one thing you need plenty of to pull it off.

M-o-n-e-y.

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