The adventure has turned defensive. Since the last post at the end of November, we’ve spent our time trying to dodge the weather in the rest of the country (mostly successfully) by staying in California, and trying to dodge news of Donald Trump (entirely unsuccessfully).

In early December we were driveway camping again in Redwood City at the home of our friend, known in the blog as Redwood City Judith (as distinguished from Sun Valley Judith). This afforded us a chance to pursue some fair weather activities like watching Stanford almost defeat USC for the Pac-12 championship.

The next night we attended a Posada celebration at Buena Vista Mobile Home Park in Palo Alto. Buena Vista is the only mobile home park in Palo Alto, and one of the few places in town where families with low or modest incomes can afford to live. I participated along with scores of others in a four-year effort to save the place from being scraped to make way for a luxury condo development, and to preserve it for the community that calls it home. The Posada has been an annual event for the past several years, but this one was special. As of now the park is assured in perpetuity of being preserved as a  community accessible to low-income families – and over time the existing mobile homes and infrastructure will be upgraded as well.

Buena Vista.

Posada Procession.

Our friend Winter, who led the long struggle to save Buena Vista, really got into the spirit of the Posada.

Later in December, Mia and I got to see the Stanford volleyball team advance to the Final Four.

Kate and I caught a break when our friend Peggy, who was out of town, offered us her condo for a week. We expected it to be a pleasant, uneventful stay, but there were complications.

Between us we had only one set of keys to open the outside doors to the condo complex and to the apartment. On our first day at Peggy’s, while at the nearby gym I got a text message from Kate: “Having back issue. I’ll drop the keys down into the parking lot when you get here. Text me.” Kate's back gets out of whack every few years. When it happens she’s temporarily reduced to lying in bed on ice packs, and to navigating by crawling. Walking is out of the question.

When I arrived at the parking lot, Kate had found that she couldn’t open any of the windows or the doors to the baIcony (from her vantage point crawling on the floor), so she couldn’t drop the keys to me. I texted to Kate: “I think I can get to the apartment by going through the garage and taking the elevator.”  A few minutes later I texted again: “The elevator will only work if I have a key, and now I’m locked in the garage.”  Eventually a car exited the garage and I hustled out behind before the door slammed shut.

Kate texted: “Wait at the front door until someone comes, and see if they’ll let you in.” At the front door I encountered two women in succession, both of whom assumed I was a con man or a terrorist and quickly hustled inside, locking the door behind them.

Kate had another idea. “Try buzzing the apartment. Maybe I can buzz you in, if I can figure out how.” I studied the complex instructions on the buzz-in box. I was to scroll until I found the name of the person whose apartment I wanted, then punch in a number. It was unclear what number I should punch in. I scrolled to “Murphy, P” and punched in her apartment number. After a phone-ringing tone, a woman picked up. I didn’t recognize her voice. I explained who I was, what my problem was, and what I was trying to accomplish. She assumed I was a con man or a terrorist, and quickly hung up. I returned to the garage, and waited by the elevator. Eventually a resident drove in, parked, and risked theft, injury, or death, and let me in.

After a few days Kate recovered, in spite of trying to do too much too soon. I wanted to document the crawling phase with a few videos, but she absolutely forbade it. Hence, this account lacks interest, having no amusing video accompaniment.

As Christmas approached we abandoned California and its weather, and struck out for Oregon. In Ashland we visited friends Nancy and Bert for a couple of Christmas-y days.

Nancy and Bert in front of a fancy restaurant Christmas tree in Ashland.

Onward we went to Portland for a (partial) family gathering for Christmas at Sam and Marisa’s house. Actually, Kate and I stayed near Sam and Marisa’s, doing dog and cat sitting duty at their friends’ house a few blocks away.

Aaliyah visited us at our house-sitting location and hung with Lola the dog (we've now come to know several dogs named Lola around the country).

The cats were a little more elusive when the camera was around, but they partied hearty during our stay and left evidence of spirited impromptu games.

It was quite a gathering of us at Sam and Marisa's – fifteen people in all.

We noticed early on that we weren’t in California any more. Driving required expert tobogganing skills, sliding up and down the icy Portland hills. Our frigid visit to Santa Land proved a little disappointing. Santa had closed his land for the season two days before Christmas. The kids rose to the challenge, though. Maya, Sawyer, and Kellen smiled for photos through chattering teeth, both outside and in the still-open Santa photo hut.

Some of us went on that evening to view Portland’s famous “Zoo Lights.” They were beautiful, but the only time I’ve been colder was when I climbed to the top of the Great Wall of China it a howling wind in January.

Sawyer, Sam, Kellen, Mia, and Aaliyah smile bravely (except for Sawyer) while viewing Zoo Lights in sub-freezing temperatures.

Christmas arrived!

Everyone got p.j.’s, courtesy of Laura, Mia, and Aaliyah.

Mine were quite notable (Here I was about to scurry up the wall -- get it?).

Sam followed the simple instructions for assembling Sawyer’s new train set.

Laura and Sarah admired yet another of Sawyer's new trains. Sawyer likes trains.

I received a modest symbol of the resurgent 49ers.

After the presents were opened, it was time to relax and watch a movie.

Marisa went all out with a fabulous Christmas dinner.

Back in California after Christmas, we resumed our homeless social whirl, depending on the kindness of friends and relatives. First up was a party celebrating the 50^th wedding anniversary of our Palo Alto friends Trina and Larry.

Trina’s wedding dress was still a perfect fit.

As refugees from the ice and snowstorms in Portland, we were glad to be back in the land of outdoor January dining.

Next we traveled to Southern California, for the third time since we began our adventure seventeen months ago. First we made a quick overnight stop in Orange, where we visited Andrea (daughter of “Sun Valley Judith,” for those trying to keep track). Then we moved on to Bermuda Dunes (near Palm Springs) for our second visit with Kate’s cousin Dirk and his wife Marti. We had a good time with them, including a visit to The Kids’ Bakery (TKB), in an unassuming warehouse-looking building in the industrial district of Indio, California.

TKB had fabulous sandwiches and baked goods, and provided documented proof that it’s the “fourth best restaurant in the U.S.” Who knew?

From Bermuda Dunes we traveled to Oxnard (near Ventura, California) to stay with Jim, my friend for the past sixty years (!).

Jim.

We were in the Los Angeles area in order to attend the wedding of a friend’s daughter. Our friend Kris is part of Kate’s toddler’s moms’ group that formed when Laura was little, 33 years ago or so.  Our friend Dawn is part of the moms’ group, and also has been Jim’s special friend for several years now (Sorry, but it’s very important to document every detail for posterity – especially in view of advanced age, etc.).

Jim and Dawn.

Dawn was in charge of floral decorations for the big event, so the day before the wedding we helped with the floral work.

Actually Kate helped with the floral work, and I posed for a picture, pretending to help with the floral work. Jim and I actually mostly helped with eating the floral workers' lunch and then repaired to our home away from home, beautiful Santa Anita Racetrack.

As usual, we won big. I bet a bundle on the #1 horse (far right, finishing first).

Next day, the wedding was a great success, on a beautiful Southern California day.

The bride and groom had a really good time.

Dawn’s decorations looked great.

The moms’ group had a chance to catch up.

After the wedding, Kate and I parted ways for a few days. Kate returned to the Bay Area to rehearse for an upcoming World Harmony Chorus performance and then to spend time at Laura and Mia’s Sierra cabin, and I stayed behind for a visit with Jim.

Kate departs. Days ahead in prospect,
not joined at the hip.

My visit with Jim was low key, to say the least. It was easy to feel smug, looking at the photos rolling in from family in the Midwest, the Northwest, the East, and the Sierra.

Coello, Illinois (Michael).

Camp Connell, California (Kate)

Missoula, Montana (Sarah, with Baby Chuck)

In Oxnard, we were living the good life.

Lounging by the pool at Jim's condo.

At the beach in Oxnard.

Back in the Bay Area in late January, I found that meeting interesting people isn’t confined to camping trips in an RV. Sitting in my car in a Palo Alto parking lot, I was approached by a guy waving his arms and looking desperate. I first assumed he was a panhandler, and prepared to give him a few bucks and be on my way. But I was wrong. So wrong.

David (pronounced Dah-VEED) is a guy from Strasbourg, France.  David speaks English with some difficulty (way better than I speak French, of course), so it took me quite a while to piece together his story. When he asked me if I speak French, I made the mistake of saying “Un petit peu.” He looked as if he might cry, he was so relieved and grateful, and thenceforward spoke to me mostly in French. Since I last studied French 56 years ago, this slowed down the process of piecing together his story.

David was vacationing in the U.S.  On the day before he was supposed to fly home, he had breakfast in a Redwood City café. When he wasn't looking, two men (recorded by the cafe  security camera) grabbed his computer valise and jacket and took off. By the time he noticed, the thieves were long gone.

David, from Strasbourg via Basel.

David reported the theft to the Redwood City police. He explained that now he had no computer, no phone, no credit cards, no money, and no passport. They were sympathetic, but said there wasn’t much they could do. They gave him a twenty dollar bill and suggested he go to the embassy. 

At the embassy they said they could obtain a new passport, but it would take several days. His bank in France told him they could send a new credit card, but he’d have to check into a hotel so they could mail it to an address. He tried some hotels, but they wouldn’t rent him a room because he had no credit card, no money, and no ID. His father wired him money, but Western Union wouldn’t give it to him because he didn’t have an ID. He tried to change his flight home to a later date, but the airline said it was too late to change the flight unless he brought a police report to their office at the San Jose Airport that day. 

He'd spent most of his $20 on food, and anyway he wasn't sure where the airport was. So I guess he was just walking in the general direction of San Jose (20 miles away) when in desperation he flagged me down in the Walgreens parking lot.  

Hearing his story, I was convinced. No one could make that up. I gave him a ride to San Jose, bought him lunch, and stuck with him until his flight reservation was fixed. He found a hostel in San Francisco (near the embassy) that would allow him to stay without an ID if he paid in advance. So I loaned him enough cash to cover several nights in the hostel, and several days of food and incidentals -- in the most expensive city in the U.S. He said he’d pay me back, and I believed him.

When I told my good friend and walking partner Cheryl about my experience with David, she said: “You’re an idiot.” She knows David isn’t the first stranger with a sad story to whom I’ve loaned money, and she thinks this is a bad habit. I think she didn’t really mean I’m an idiot. I think it’s her version of tough love, and she really just means I’m something of a soft touch. An idealist, one might say. Cheryl's choice of language has no doubt been influenced by the Age of Trump.

Cheryl, tough love advocate, tending to her knitting.

I had an email from David today. He got his passport and his credit card, and is on his way home. He says he'll pay me back when he gets to France. I believe him.

During February Kate and I plan to continue hiding from the weather in the rest of the country. We’ll stay mostly in California until March. In March and April we’ll pull the rig out of Judith's driveway and head for destinations unknown. Well, two of the destinations are in fact known -- Boise and Missoula. At this point the rig has no functional air conditioning, no heat, and no working refrigerator. We're confident that our go-to mechanics in Boise and Missoula will put things right, and then at long last we’ll travel the countryside in a perfect rig.