The exit ramp chuted me through a veil of eucalyptus-scented mist that was already being sponged up by the morning sun and onto the slopes of the little isle that floated like a grass-covered buoy in the water. Through a break in the tall trees of its natural landscape, I got my first good look at the much larger island that human hands had built upon the waters alongside Yerba Buena while I’d been busy carpeting every square inch of the Midwest and Southeast with the Jack Donovan Orchestra.

What I saw (and I may have gasped when I did) was a sprawling walled city whose architecture seemed to be an amalgam of the Aztecan, Abyssinian, and Acropolisian. Beneath its ramparts were lavish gardens whose millions of blooms were organized in such disciplined fashion that they looked like the contents of a giant’s paint box. I guided Larry’s sedan onto a causeway that bridged the gulf between Yerba Buena and “Treasure Island” (this being its official name), paid fifty cents at a tollgate, and slow-cruised the Nash down a great boulevard lined with palm trees. Above what seemed to be the kingdom’s gateway, I was astounded to see twin Mayan pyramids that served as stepped platforms for a pair of stone elephants trumpeting to a gleaming gilt phoenix atop the island’s tallest tower. Through a second great portal in the crenellated walls, I saw a lofty yet graceful statue, a milk-white goddess standing taller than depictions of the Colossus of Rhodes or Athena at the Parthenon.

And then I came to the parking lot.

A half hour later found me seated in the Foreign Pavilion area of the Golden Gate Exposition, at the outdoor Café Lafayette, attached to the Palais de l’Élégance, dipping a warm brioche into a sweet, smoky bowl of café au lait while awaiting the arrival of a young woman I didn’t know.

It seemed strange to be eating patisserie in this mock Montparnasse while Paris was largely deprived of the same treat. France had fallen to Hitler only three months earlier, and the sale of baked goods there had been banned four days a week. So I felt guilty enjoying my little breakfast on a sunny day flecked with soft breezes from the bay. But then again, for the last eleven years I’d generally felt guilty enjoying anything.

Just as, when driving, you will sometimes notice a distant oncoming automobile and get the idea that it is intent on meeting you head-on, I watched a young woman walk my way, more and more my way, until she was sitting uninvited at my table.