By Stuart J. Faber

The Dining Room at Farallon, San Francisco. (Courtesy Farallon)In the course of each year, my job takes me to the four corners of the planet. One week, I may be in Shanghai. A week later, I am on the other end of the globe – perhaps London. In between, I might visit places that some folks might regard is less glamorous.

That’s okay with me – I’m not always looking for glamour. You know, at times you might love to dine on gourmet cuisine (I’ve never quite understood what the term means), on a table adorned with white linen and bone China plates. Other times, it’s just as exciting, or even more so, to saunter into a dive in a small, obscure town and have a down-home sizzling steak or burger dinner. (For the latter, I’ve often written about, and rhapsodized over, one of my favorite joints in America – Jocko’s steak house in Nipomo, Calif. I can’t count the times we’ve flown or driven from Los Angeles just to devour one of their steaks).

The point is that I often can derive just as much pleasure and exhilaration, or more, from a trip to some off-the-beaten-path village as I can from strolling down the Champs Elysees. But when asked about my favorite places in the world, San Francisco is always near the top of the list.

One reason is that the environs of this city are so magnificent and unique that, as is true with all genuine beauty, the pulchritude increases with each observation. Another is that San Francisco was my boyhood home for two years during WWII. Some force draws me back each year.

The Airport