Let us suppose that you are visiting San Francisco for a long weekend. You are traveling alone, for reasons best left unexplored. Let us say that when you arrive on Thursday afternoon, the City is not filled with the bright, sunshiny brilliance that most travelers associate with California. Instead, pearly-grey fog chases up the streets and slips over and around the buildings, giving the City the appearance of being wrapped in a gauzy blanket. Let us assume that this does not disappoint you, because you are not the usual kind of tourist. You aren't searching for sourdough bread or a ride to Alcatraz or a peek-a-boo trip down Haight Street.

     Lucky you.

     On Thursday evening, you make your way to the Evensong Service at Grace Cathedral Church, located on the top of Nob Hill. From the cab, you watch white-gloved hotel porters with shining brass whistles step confidently into the streets, arms raised. The Cathedral rises atop the hill like a beacon, complete with a spire that reaches into the fog. Inside, you catch your breath: stone ceilings are curved into a myriad of arching shapes, like a geometric puzzle. The entire building is rimmed in stained glass, sending shimmering spears of blue and red and gold throughout the room. The sign at the front indicates that visitors may sit in the choral nave with the choir, and so you do, slipping into the dark wooden pew, just inches from the solemn, white-robed singers. When they open their mouths, their voices bounce off of the walls and reverberate in the air around you. You intended to follow along with the program, but instead you close your eyes and listen to the haunting melodies and the stirring chords of the organ, imagining that Mozart himself would be thrilled to be in your place.

     After the service, you walk across the street to the Big Four, where a trim man in a suit and tie plays the piano in a warm, dimly lit bar decorated with dark green carpet and a cavernous fireplace. You order a Sidecar--what else, in a place as elegant and old-fashioned as this?--and the bartender slides a silver bowl filled with salted nuts across the bar to you.

     He asks where you're planning to have dinner. Ana Mandara, you say. The swanky Vietnamese restaurant near the waterfront.

     Good choice, he says. He recommends that you try the sea bass.

     At Ana Mandara, a set of tall, dark doors swing open, and you find yourself in a large room with a balcony above. An elaborate latticework screen catches your eye. Leafy palm trees line the walls, and deep cane chairs are padded with lustrous crimson and chocolate brown silks. You start with a lemongrass martini, which slips down easily with the rich Dungeness Crab appetizer. You've relaxed into bliss by the time your sea bass arrives, steamed in a banana leaf, the fragrance earthy and spicy and altogether intoxicating. The fish melts in your mouth, mild white flesh melding with the flavors of ginger and dark shitake mushrooms. You don't think you have room for dessert, but your waiter is sure you'll love the Meyer Lemon mousse, and so you relent. The sour-sweet tartness glides across your tongue in a cool wave, and you're glad you gave in.

     You thought you might try the nightlife, but after taking a quick stroll along the water, shivering as you watch a sliver of moon try to peek out from behind a cloud, you decide that you'd rather get a good night's sleep and save your dancing feet for the following night.

     On Friday, you're up early. You head to Union Street, where you settle into a chair on the sidewalk in front of Torrefazione with an espresso and watch the neighborhood wake up. Little dogs strain on leashes and owners stroll slowly behind them. Everyone seems to be talking into a cellular phone. The streets are lined with boutiques, and you check them out one by one. In Cara Mia, you find a coat you simply can't live without, and the silver-haired gentleman at the counter is thrilled at your selection. "You look marvelous, darling," he tells you, "the color suits your complexion." Within a couple of hours, you have amassed a treasure that includes a suite of bath salts, a bracelet from a local artisan and, of course, your new coat.

     All the walking has made you hungry. You hail a cab and ask the driver where to go for lunch. Something distinctively San Francisco, you say.

     "You like seafood?" he asks. You nod. "Swan Oyster Depot," he says. "The best." He lurches through the stop signs like a madman, and pulls up in front of a tiny door on Polk Street. "I hope you're lucky," he says, "it's hard to find an open seat."

     The place is merely a hole in the wall, a slim rectangle with a single row of barstools lined up against a white countertop. There is one space available, and you slide in, feeling lucky. You order an array of shellfish on ice: pearlescent oysters with shining, jiggling flesh; cream-colored clams; fat mussels with blue-green shells. The flavors are fresh and crisp, tasting of ocean and brine. Perfect.

     After lunch, you walk to California Street and ride the cable car back downtown. You stand upright against the rail, liking the feeling of the breeze across your face, watching as apartment buildings and shops slide past you in neat rows, swaying to the bells that chime as the car chugs up and over the hill. The cable car is packed with people by the time it reaches downtown, and you're eager for solid ground again.

     The hectic morning has left you in dire need of some pampering, and the concierge at your hotel insists on making reservations for you at the Kabuki Spa in Japantown. Since it's Friday, only women are allowed inside. The atmosphere is lush and calming, and within minutes, you feel your muscles unclenching. You close your eyes in the sauna for a few moments, then move to the hot pool to soak before your massage. Later, you fall asleep while strong fingers work away the knots in your back and shoulders. If you had started there in the morning, you'd have stayed all day.

     Back at the hotel, your languid body wouldn't mind if you pulled the covers over your head and slept like a baby, but you resist the temptation. Instead, you climb back in a cab and head for Delphina's in the Mission for some rustic Italian food. You order the salt cod brandade to start, spreading the creamy concoction onto a thin crostini and breathing in the scent of it for a just a moment before crunching down. The papardelle with a thick, pork sugo for a sauce is even better, chewy and sweet and bursting with flavors of tomato and garlic. You finish with a contented sigh and head back into the cool night to North Beach for jazz at Pearl's. A beautiful vocalist serenades you into a lull, and by midnight, you're thinking about the hotel bed again, but you stop by Tosca's first for a quick nightcap, taking in the plush, dark booths in the flickering candlelight. You can't help but notice that everyone seems to be part of a couple, and so you don't stay long.

     On Saturday morning, you rent a car and drive over the Golden Gate Bridge, amazed all over again at this marvel of architecture and beauty that seems to float over the water. As if by magic, the fog stops as soon as you reach the end of the bridge. Instead of turning off at the crowded viewpoint, you take the Alexander Avenue exit, then make a quick left back underneath the freeway and curve along the Marin Headlands. Up and up you go, higher and higher, until you reach the very top. You park and take in the view. You notice the way the fog sits on top of the city like a giant soap bubble, then you turn and walk up the pathway that winds along the rim of the hill. There are only a few people up here, and for several moments it feels like you have it all to yourself. Butterflies and birds swoop through the trees and shrubs, and the Pacific Ocean stretches out below you in a shimmering blue expanse that seems to go on forever.

     When you're done exploring the hilltop, you decide to take the long drive back, the one-way road that hugs the cliffs and offers glimpses of ocean or city at each curve. Eucalyptus trees hang over the road, and the scent drifts through your open windows. Divine. At some of the turnoffs, you pull the car over and explore. It doesn't seem possible that all of this wild beauty is only ten minutes from the City.

     That night, after a refreshing nap, you find AsiaSF, where smiling transvestites wave you in with a flip of their feather boas. Later, they sashay across the bar in glittery dresses and stupendously high heels, lip-synching to Madonna and Prince. The mood is ebullient, and the food is surprisingly scrumptious; tuna tartare comes surrounded with tender green cubes of avocado, with plenty of crunchy wontons to scoop it up. After the show, you head downstairs to the dance floor, where an eclectic crowd lines the walls and grooves to a lively, up-tempo house mix. You dance until you're sweaty, but then you're just warming up.

     The cab driver deposits you at 1015 Folsom with a grim set of his jaw. The place is packed. You find a room that is saturated with a sultry, ethereal beat. A DJ hunches inside a booth, lost in his art. Girls with long braids and blue sarongs dance in a cage above the crowd. You're swallowed into the crowd and quickly become part of the moving, undulating mass. Arms slide against arms, eyes catch eyes. You dance until your pinky toes scream at you, and it's already past two a.m., and you reluctantly decide to call it a night.

     On Sunday, you crawl out of bed and head back to Nob Hill, where your cab deposits you at the Ritz Carlton. You take the elevator to the basement in search of Sunday Brunch. It's just what you need to remedy the previous night: there are fluffy omelets made to order, fresh orange juice in glass pitchers, and best of all, plenty of open tables outside on the terrace, in view of a lovely garden. You fill up a plate with asparagus spears and deviled eggs and narrow slices of honeydew melon wrapped in prosciutto, and carry it outside. You tip your head back to soak in some of the lemony sunshine that is spilling through the clouds. A white-coated someone nudges your shoulder and asks if you want coffee, and as you lazily stir cream into the steaming cup, it occurs to you that you're in no hurry to go home. Leave Fisherman's Wharf and the sea lions for the other tourists. This is the San Francisco you love.

     Let us assume that you'll be back.