When you travel, you expect to have incomparable moments that you can’t – or don’t – have at home. But occasionally, you can have the unexpected and sublime in your own town. I’m having one tonight. Near my new place is an area called Mint Plaza. It abuts one of the old San Francisco mint buildings, which is no longer operable as said mint, and now serves up several restaurants. The area is hopping for lunch, on weekends and during conventions (such as the just-wrapped-up Oracle Open World convention), but on off-nights is charmingly quiet.

Sitting at the bar at Thermidor and gazing out onto Mint Plaza I feel transported to Paris or New Orleans or New York or London. There are enough reference points in my line of sight to allow me to imagine any of those locales.

Wine warms me; senses tingle. And it’s one of those moments where I feel like I could linger here until the restaurant closes and I am forced to spill out into the cool night air of the plaza and find my way home past any lingering tourists and panhandlers. I stare at the amber-hued candle in front of me as I listen to the strains of a French-style accordion tune and sip my port and wonder if there is any other place I had rather be at this very moment. And the answer comes back as a resounding, No.