BY PAOLO BICCHIERI The Paris of the West, our Baghdad by the Bay, shines like an overcast gray diamond once the end of the year rolls in, like so much fog in a bank. Why? Certainly because most everyone leaves. The streets run empty like ancient Greece with invisible wine.

Ahhhhh, kissing under the mistletoe! You have it all planned: after partaking in some holiday cheer, you’ll maneuver your object of desire into the door frame where the familiar green twig with white is hangin (if it has red berries it’s Holly, not mistletoe), and you kiss the hell out of