"... sure it's possible," the Captain was agreeing when I entered the kitchen, then "Good morning, Alex. How's the job, eh?" The Captain was seated at the kitchen table, sketching a mechanism on a yellow legal pad. Dan was at the stove, pouring a bowl of eggs in a pan.

"Interesting," I offered. "Morning, Dan. Guess I slept late." I had slept late - for the first time since I'd woken in the hospital.

"Breakfast in a minute," Dan greeted me. "Just a plain omelet, sorry - but it'll be hot."

"Fine with me," I agreed. "What's happening?" My watch said eight-fifteen. I was expecting the limo at nine and meeting Kondo san and companions at ten.

"Planning a new clock," Captain Donavi suggested. "Thinking about combining a desk-sized fountain with a clypsteria design." - meaning a water clock. "Just the thing for Dan's office, eh?"

Dan was shaking his head softly. Amusement, I assumed.

"Wouldn't be very accurate would it?" I asked.

"Man needs to get away from clocks anyway," the Captain argued. "Good for him to have something human - computer'll tell him what time it is, this clock'll tell him what time it should be."

There was a quirk in the Captain's logic somewhere but I wasn't sure it was worth following. Besides, maybe he was right.

The omelet was fine - mild, true, but Dan had heated a tomato sauce in the microwave which provided a pleasant accent. Maybe something was rubbing off on him. He'd also brewed tea - adding mint from what I'd bought a few days before - which wouldn't have been at all out of place in Algiers.

When Leroy appeared with the limousine, I excused myself, complementing Dan on his cooking. I hadn't had time to check email - but there wasn't any rush, I reminded myself.

As Leroy handled the cross-town traffic, I used the cellular to reach Caesar at the hospital and made notes of several locations he suggested. I also asked where I could find an authentic Mexican restaurant - preferably one which was respectable without being tourist-oriented.

Saturday traffic across the Golden Gate Bridge was heavy. All six lanes - four moving north and two south - were clogged with cars and the walkways along the sides of the bridge were heavy with sightseeing pedestrians.

At Leroy's suggestion, the limo pulled into the viewpoint parking area on the Marin side of the bridge where our guests took the opportunity to photograph the world famous span. From the highland vantage, I pointed out Alcatraz again, then showed them Angel Island, pointed out Berkeley, the fog-shrouded Bay Bridge and Treasure Island and answered - accurately, I hoped - their questions about the bay area.

Between the Marine Mammal Center, a break for lunch, the Point Bonita Lighthouse, the Headlands Art Center and the beautiful wooded drive, it was nearly five by the time we returned to the city. The limo's trunk wasn't full but it had acquired an assortment of purchases - including one bronze piece depicting a jazz clarinetist in full swing. It was an impressive piece of sculpture and, I thought, would certainly grace Kondo san's office.

During the drive, I also called the office and made arrangements for shipping various of the purchases back to Osaka. Their luggage, I didn't think, would be able to accommodate their acquisitions. Certainly not the bronze.

Offered a choice between dinner first or shopping first - the shops, I assured them, would be open until nine at least - the preference was for shopping first.

The Embarco Center was a logical choice for a shopping expedition. Stretching on three levels for four blocks - with flying bridges crossing the streets below - the Embarco Center hosted a veritable cornucopia of stores without the enclosed feeling of a conventional mall. It also hosted a variety of very upscale shops as well as an assortment of more casual - and some 'funky' - stores. It was also a location where JCB cards - the principal Japanese credit card - would be accepted without problems. For shops which did not accept the JCB cards, there were ATMs which would.

That our Japanese visitors should be shopping for shoes and clothes seemed a little strange but, as Shoji san explained, for many items, prices were much better here than at home ... even for a few Japanese exports. Everything, I was assured, was yasui desu - not expensive.

Mostly, however, they were interested in Italian shoes and leather goods, fine suits, some dresses ... and an assortment of the latest t-shirts and blue jeans. I didn't try to make sense of their selections. Further, unlike much of Asia, haggling over prices is not a Japanese custom so relatively little translation was required.

I did, however, arrange for Leroy to meet us with the limo when their packages became cumbersome.

Finally, their desired shopping expedition finished, I gave Leroy the address of La Posada Naranja. Not one of San Francisco's fanciest establishments, I'd been assured, but a superb - and authentic - Hispanic restaurante where, Caesar had suggested, the paella was a specialty and the salchichas was the best in town.

La Posada Naranja wasn't hard to find - the orange-painted portico made neon unnecessary.

Inside, the establishment was bright, open and furnished with what might have been antiques ... or might simply have been well preserved original furnishings. The name, La Posada Naranja - the Orange Inn - was carried throughout the decor with the walls decorated with murals of early Spanish stagecoaches, scenes with vaqueros on horseback and Spanish galleons at anchor in the harbour. With each mural enclosed by rustic window frames, the effect was one of looking out of multiple openings with a different landscape beyond each.

Inside, heavy wood tables were softened by Spanish lace and ladder-backed chairs painted with bright floral designs. The waiters wore frilled white shirts over dark slacks, the waitresses complementing them with dark skirts and lace-frilled blouses. Still, despite all of the finery, there was an air of authenticity - a sense of worn cleanliness and a pervasive odor of spices - suggesting that the entire establishment had been lifted from an earlier century and brought entire to the present day.

The effect was not lost on my clients. As we entered, I heard several sharp hisses of surprise followed by quick remarks, each of my companions focusing on a different aspect of the decor and politely calling another's attentions to some element of the structure, furnishings or costumes.

After confirming our reservations - I had called before leaving the Embarco Center - we were promptly shown to a table and offered menus.

Since the choice of location and cuisine had been left to me - and the menus were in mixed Spanish and English - I declined the specifics and, instead, discussed the meal briefly with our waiter. The paella - the specialty of the house - had been highly recommended but, I suggested, we would begin with margaritas and an assortment of aperitivos.

The appetizers - tacos, small blue-corn tamales, peppers, three salsas, chips and small gambas - shrimp spiced with lime, cilantro, onions and tomatoes - made a festive spread ... as well as producing unexpected reactions when both Kishi san and Ito san too eagerly sampled the jalapeños.

Well, I'd tried to explain, comparing the peppers to wasabi horseradish but some lessons, it seems, are universal and are only learned by experience.

The margaritas were more popular but difficult to explain - cactus was not a familiar vegetation and I omitted mention of the maguey worms entirely. Discretion seemed the better part.

The paella - a huge platter of saffroned rice combined with mixed sea-food, shellfish, jambon (ham) and sausage bordered with large wedges of lemon - was an instant hit ... in more ways than one. The rice was both familiar and unfamiliar but, when the management produced wrapped bamboo chopsticks - proving again just how international San Francisco really is - my five clients dug in with a will.

"Oishii desu," Kondo san pronounced - 'delicious'.

"Dai umai desu," Kishi san amplified - 'very delicious'.

I translated both complements for the waiter, offering my appreciation as well. The assessment was more than accurate - everything about the meal had been delicious, the service had been prompt without being obtrusive and I was facing five very pleased gentlemen who's only concerns at the moment appeared to be whether they had room for another mussel or another bite of prawn.

Of course, the margaritas might have made a small contribution as well ... as well as a heavy day of sightseeing and shopping ... but, in any case, everyone was happy.

Which brought the subject back to San Francisco's night life. Mori san produced a brochure - printed in Japanese, extolling the virtues of an establishment in the Tenderloin districts. It wasn't, perhaps, the best area of town but visiting firemen seem to be the same the world over. Small surprise, I suppose.

Maybe I'd had a margarita or two too many myself ... or maybe it had been too long since I - my previous I, that is - had visited San Francisco. In any case, I didn't object too strongly when Kondo san decided that we should walk from La Posada Naranja to the establishment with the improbable name: Mad Dog In The Fog.

We were somewhere intermediate between the restaurant and the tavern when I felt the pricking of misgivings. We were definitely not in the best part of town, the graffiti had the look of turf marking and the immediate area consisted of businesses with barred windows and doors - all of which had closed hours earlier. The streets were relatively empty, the few parked cars looking like the kind of vehicles car-jackers would turn their noses up at while the streetlights were outnumbered by the trashcans along the curb. The only people in evidence were more interested in sleeping or in the contents of their paper-bagged bottles than in us.

Definitely not San Francisco at its best.

My misgivings intensified a half-block further when a mixed group of six - four Hispanics and two Afros as nearly as I could judge, wearing Raider's caps and blue plaid shirts - appeared around a corner.

Sighting our party, the leader of the homeboys lead his group toward us, walking with a jaunty, waltzing sway. "Hola, amigos," we were greeted in Spanish. "¿Que pasa?"

"Buenos noches," I responded. "Just passing through," I added, a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach.

"¿What about your friends here? ¿Not very polite are they?" It wasn't a question but a challenge.

"Mi amigos," I offered, "are visitors here. They do not speak Spanish."

"Don't you know you're on Diablo turf," the leader continued. "We charge a tariff for strangers - kind of insurance. Just to see that nothing unfortunate happens? Maybe you should tell your friends, right? Then you can pay up and we'll see you don't have any trouble. ¿Comprendé?"

I understood ... very clearly.

I turned to my companions. This wasn't a situation I cared for but ... the best defense is a good offense, right. "Honorable sirs," I began, "these importunate persons - homeboys - desire an okuri mono for passing on their 'turf'." I could see Kondo san's face tighten as I spoke. At the same time, his grip on his cane shifted slightly. "Please, one moment," I asked. "You have all seen 'kung fu' movies, hai?"

My five charges nodded briefly.

"Fine," I continued. "If you would, please, when I turn around, bow respectfully to them and then adopt a kung fu attack stance, hai?"

The four juniors immediately looked to Kondo san for decision. Then, when he nodded, all faced me and bowed agreement.

Feeling weak in the knees, I returned the bows, then turned back to face our interrogators, raising my right hand, palm forward, fingers loosely spread. As I did so, out of the corner of my eye, I sensed rather than saw my five companions move apart before bowing stiffly ... and deeply.

As they came upright again, each took a stance.

Kondo san stood upright, raising his cane in a Tai Chi sword stance slightly above eye level, the head held in his right hand, the shaft against his open palm, his right shoulder turned slightly away from the facing group.

Mori san - surprising for his build, spread his legs widely, knees bent, hands on his thighs, settling into place with a stamping motion. Suddenly, even crouching, he seemed six inches taller and a hundred pounds heavier.

Kishi san moved forward, then, holding one leg folded and his arms raised with hands flat and hooked forward, assumed a Crane stance, keeping the posture with an easy grace.

Shoji san also raised his arms but holding one high and one lower, half-turned in the Mantis position.

Ito san - in contrast - bowed again, speaking "Excuse, prease," before raising his camera and snapping their picture. Dropping the camera in his pocket, Ito san took a sudden leap into the air, aiming a flying kick a foot above his head before dropping back to a half-crouch with his arms not quite crossed before his chest, hands held in a loose curl.

My hand raised as if restraining my five business-suited ninjas, I addressed the homeboys coarsely: "El fotographia," I suggested, "ratas de al cantarilla, este por sus familias. ¿Comprendé, boca de gusano?" Literally and insultingly, "The photograph, sewer rats, is for your families. Comprehend, maggot mouth?"

The final insult was unnecessary - two of the homeboys were already backing away and two more were turning to exit ... which left the leader and his number one facing me ... us.

And instant later, the final two looked around, saw their support melting, then turned and ran, beating their fellows to the corner and out of sight.

I'd never felt so relieved in my life ... short as my current life was.

I took time for two deep breaths before looking around.

Kondo san was standing like an oak tree, both hands clasped on his cane, the faintest hint of a smile on his face.

His four juniors were facing him, bowing deeply.

As I turned, Kondo san returned the bow from his juniors with a nod. Then, turning to face me squarely, he bowed deeply and respectfully, his bow echoed by his companions. "Your entertainment is most impressive, Tambeau sensei," he addressed me as he straightened. The honorific sensei - which can mean doctor, teacher or master among others - is used only as a mark of great respect.

Instinctively, I returned my deepest bow - bowing to the honor as much as returning theirs. "I did not realize," I apologized to them, "that I was accompanied by samuri. I am greatly honored."

"The honor is ours," Kishi san responded with another bow.

"Our debt is beyond measure," Mori san added, also bowing.

"Honorable sensei," Shoji san was dragging a startled wino with one hand while Ito san waved a fan of bills like a carrot, "Please to ask gentleman to take pictures?"

"Please, sensei?" Ito san added, "You ask homroys return for picture?"

The rest of the evening - after a happy and enriched wino had finished snapping pictures and had departed with a fist full of wealth - was relatively uneventful.

But it did get pretty drunk out.

I was glad Leroy was driving.