Forgive us our Trespasses

Is it trespass, I wonder, to enter land your taxes have supported without authority?  That's what we did on Sunday, when we wantonly bypassed a California sign at Butano State Park, telling us that the park was closed.

As rule-breaking goes, it was a fairly insignificant infraction.  We strolled past the unmanned Ranger hut (normal fee $6).  We would have been happy to hand over the cash, but there was nowhere to leave it.  Feeling somewhat furtive, we continued down the main road, passing a Park Service employee who was toiling away at blowing leaves.  She neither questioned our presence, nor hindered our progress.

We cut off onto a trail which had degraded significantly through six months of disuse, and (presumably) no upkeep.  The banana slugs had taken over.  The redwoods towered over us, unconcerned by the plight of California's inability to balance its books. 

In the hour or so that we spent there, we passed a few other folk who had ignored the inhospitable sign at the entrance.  Curt nods were exchanged - nothing like the normal camaraderie of fellow hikers.  Clearly, we were all worried that the others might be undercover cops or whistleblowers, ready to run us out of the park. 

We passed through Pescadero on our way home.  It's a small town, with a famous inn, Duarte's Tavern, a saloon straight out of a western (with real 19th century heritage), which happens to serve splendid straightforward American fare and fabulous pies.  A slice of ollalieberry pie to the good, we headed home.

It just happened that evening that PBS was showing a special on the life of David Brower: Monumental, in the run up to Earth Day this Thursday.  Brower is probably the most important environmentalist since John Muir, having run campaigns within and without the Sierra Club, most famously ensuring that no further dams would mar the Grand Canyon.  The scale of his achievements is extraordinary.  He was famously unwilling to compromise, which eventually meant that he ran afoul of some of the great organizations (including the Sierra Club) that  he led and served.

His passion to preserve the glorious natural beauty of the American west is the kind of legacy which we should all be lucky enough to leave.  And while I am certain that the great state of California could and should trim some bureaucratic fat, I am just as sure that cutting off access to our natural resources is a lousy way to do it. 

On the Kindness of Strangers

When purchasing patio furniture, most folk don't think about transporting the stuff  from another continent as personal luggage on an airplane.  Usually a quick trip to Home Depot will suffice.  Not for your loyal correspondent.  On my recent trip to Britain, I was captivated by a particularly fetching set of a table, two chairs and a parasol (in Tiffany Blue!) which I saw in John Lewis.

At a mere £89, it was a deal too good to pass up, despite the logistical difficulty of carrying an additional 35lbs of weight to Heathrow, not to mention figuring out how to get the box into my VW Beetle at the other end.

Which is where the decency of a bunch of folk who didn't know me comes in.  From the moment I got to the British Airways check-in area, the good karma started.  

Airlines, as you know, love to gyp you for extra baggage.  But an amused looking BA attendant suggested that I head over to the plastic wrap section and make my two large cardboard boxes one.  She explained that BA charges by piece of luggage (rather than by total weight), so the fewer bits I had, the less it was going to cost me.  I've always wondered who uses the plastic wrap service, but have to confess that I was a very happy customer.  For just £6, my two parcels were magically combined, saving me nearly £40 in extra bag charges.  You've got to admire the current Southwest advertising campaign ("Bags Fly Free" - see example above), which  seems cheesy until you've paid a fortune to check luggage!

Having temporarily disposed of my encumbrances, I decided to reward myself with lunch at Carluccio's (only possible before you go through security in Terminal 5, so leave yourself enough time, foodies, otherwise you will be faced with the usual dismal airport choices).


At San Francisco airport, the box emerged from the oversized luggage area looking somewhat battered.  I soon discovered why.  The customs officer, who initially eyed me with deep suspicion (British accent, American passport with a huge box of "patio furniture" - you can see his point), saw that someone before him had opened the box to ensure that the contents were as stated on the outside.  Now laughing heartily at my dedication to bargain-hunting, he waved me through a fast track line, and I navigated my cart towards the long term parking bus stop.


I wasn't quite there when the bus hoved into view.   Dashing the last few yards, with the box careening dangerously from side to side on the luggage cart, I arrived panting and anxious at the bus.  The days when the driver would help you with luggage appear to have disappeared, and I faced the first real test of my journey.  Could I lift the box the 2 feet up to the bus?  No need.  Two male passengers (who didn't know each other) bounced off the bus and hefted it up for me.  Brilliant.  The only remaining challenge was getting the box into the Bug.

The guys got the box off the bus at the garage, and then disappeared into the distance to retrieve their cars.  But the female parking attendant (yes, the parking attendant!) volunteered to watch the box for me while I collected the Beetle and drove it down to the ground floor.  The two of us hefted it into the back seat (if you've ever seen the trunk of a Beetle or a Mini, you'll understand why), and I attempted to raise the convertible roof.  Which was a trick too far.  Thank God it wasn't raining.


So, wrapping a scarf around my head in Grace Kelly style, I ventured out into the somewhat chilly San Francisco evening, and drove the 90 minutes home along the freeway with the top down and the box firmly in my rear view mirror.  I fancy that I saw a few of my fellow drivers looking at me askance, but I knew that it would all eventually be worthwhile.  After all, I have what I am fairly certain is the only set of this particular style of (FSC certified) patio furniture for approximately 6000 miles.  And a mad story about the kindness of strangers to go with it.