“San Francisco has only one drawback; ’tis hard to leave,” said Rudyard Kipling. That is true. I would like to speak in detail of so many things--the fine hotels and municipal buildings, the beautiful country clubs and golf links; the old Dolores Mission and the churches; the Latin Quarter, Chinatown, and Portsmouth Square, the favorite haunt of Robert Louis Stevenson when a resident here; the Fisherman’s Wharf, where the net-menders sit at their task with stout twine and long wooden needles, like a bit of “Little Italy”; of the fogs that keep everything green in the dry season, and in an hour’s time disappear as if by magic, leaving the sunshine to cheer you; of the steep streets and houses built on “stepladders”; of Nob Hill, with its one-time sumptuous homes, now turned into clubs, and the splendid Fairmont Hotel, built upon the Fair estate. Books have been written on the restaurants of this city--French, Italian, Mexican, Spanish, Greek, and Hungarian--varying in price and in character of cuisine, with many high-class “after theater” cafés, frequented by the more exclusive patrons. Tait’s at the Beach resembles the Shelburne at Brighton Beach or Longvue on the Hudson. Soon after our arrival came the visit of the President and his party. Politics were discarded. He was the guest of the city. San Francisco certainly spells “hospitality,” and proved it. The decorations left from the welcome to the Pacific fleet and the Motor Convoy were still beautiful, but more were added. “A mass of waving flags” about describes it. A solid wall of humanity lined the streets, with thousands of children carrying fresh flowers and banners. Old Sol, in all his glory, challenged a fog to mar the splendor of his welcome. The luncheon of sixteen hundred women at the famous Palace Hotel spoke of the public spirit of their sex. No Eastern city could boast of a more attractive gathering. It was an interesting sight to see that assemblage sit in silence for over an hour, listening to a _man_; no matter what their private opinions were, they wanted to hear first-hand the convictions of their President--and they did, in plain Anglo-Saxon terms. But I have digressed, and left the reader and the car on the Ocean Drive. Yes, this was indeed “the end of the road,” with all of California yet to see. We had traversed the continent from the Atlantic to the Pacific without an accident or a day’s illness, and with only two punctures! We look back on comparatively few discomforts, and many, many pleasures and thrilling experiences, with keen satisfaction.