Thursday, January 25, 2018


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 50th 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 cafĂ©. 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.



































Thursday, November 30, 2017


When we last posted, toward the end of October, we were finally departing the Bay Area after many doctor appointments and much visiting with friends and relations. By then it had been almost six weeks since we were actually on the road (as opposed to driveway camping) in the rig. A few days before we left town, Kate got a crash course on the care and feeding of Judith’s 27 chickens in her yard in Redwood City (it’s a long story). Kate became the temporary backup chicken farmer, which will now go into her resume.



We got a late start from Palo Alto one afternoon, and after wading through rush hour traffic in three metropolitan areas, we stopped for dinner at one of our favorite roadside restaurants; Ikeda’s California Country Market in Auburn.



Ikeda’s has lots of good food, but especially good burgers and fruit pies. After much indecision, I had the blueberry pie.




I’d hoped we’d make it all the way to Winnemucca, Nevada that night, but we were tired, and eventually settled on camping at the Lowell Lake Greenhorn Campground near Grass Valley. We arrived late and woke up the camp host, who directed us: “Just go up the road to the left, you’ll see the campsites. Can’t miss them.”

We drove up the road to the left in the pitch black dark, managing to miss the campsites.  The road took a steep downhill angle. We continued, looking for campsites, but noticed something strange dead ahead.  We braked, stopping just short of a plunge into Lake Lowell. We were on the boat ramp. We came very close to finding out if the rig would float.
In daylight, we revisited the site of our near disaster.

The next morning, after a few hours’ drive we stopped at Harrah’s in Reno for late breakfast/early lunch at about 11:00. 



Entering one of the casino restaurants, we saw a couple finishing up their meatloaf dinner. As they departed, we heard them thank the host and say, “Good night.” Reno never sleeps.

Departing Reno, we drove five or six more hours and decided to stop in Wells, Nevada, near the Idaho border.  The Wells RV park was nearly deserted; apparently not too many people visit Wells at this time of year. 



We’ve been dodging extreme weather throughout our travels, but late October in the Nevada high desert feels like winter to us. Our water hose leaked a little overnight and we made our first icicle. 

A harbinger of things to come? 

Before leaving for Sun Valley, we ate breakfast in Wells at yet another great roadside eatery: Bella’s Restaurant, across from the truck stop. Bella’s serves huge breakfasts, and huge house-made cinnamon rolls (lightly frosted, as shown in the photo).


 
Cinnamon roll, lightly frosted.

Customers tended toward Vietnam vets with long curly white hair & beards, wearing camo vests, watching Fox News on several TVs. I decided not to take their photos. Just had a sense that they might not have approved.

We saw a bumper sticker we liked in the parking lot: “I’m Retired. Go Around Me.”

The drive from California to Idaho is mostly Nevada desert. There’s a certain monotony to it, but there’s a certain beauty, as well.



We arrived at our friend Judith’s house in Hailey (next door to Sun Valley) to find crisp fall weather and waning, but beautiful, fall colors.



Where's Waldo?

 
Judith was about to embark on a trip to Mexico for the Day of the Dead, so we watched over the house and the dog in her absence. Tough duty.

Lola the dog.

 
Hailey and neighboring Ketchum in some ways are throwbacks to small town America. While Judith was away, we had use of her car and her truck. We followed her custom when we went to town and left the vehicles unlocked and the keys in the ignition. She says she’s never locked her house in the thirty-plus years she’s lived in the area. When we went out to a restaurant one night before Judith left town, we found that the car’s dome light was on and we couldn’t figure out how to turn it off. While we were dining, the waiter came to the table and informed us that our dome light was on. Judith asked if he’d mind going out to the parking lot and figuring out how to turn it off. “No problem.” And he did. Full service restaurant.

Once Judith had departed for Mexico, we settled into a daily routine of long dog walks, errands, and evenings by the fire.

Evening by the fire.

We did manage to experience some unexpected adventure, though. Based on the ten day forecast before we embarked for Idaho, we expected sunny weather, with temperatures ranging from the high 40’s to the low 30’s. On the strength of that we decided to travel in the rig – the only of our vehicles that didn't have all wheel drive, and the only one that required “winterizing,” whatever that entailed, in extreme winter temperatures.

Once we had arrived in Sun Valley the forecasts suddenly changed: Temperatures ranging from the mid 30’s to single digits, with snow on several days.

Kate bundles up for a dog walk.
Don and Lola brave the elements.

 
This presented a problem. Clearly, we needed to winterize the rig. Unfortunately, since we never expected to travel in cold places in the wintertime, we had no idea how to do that. We consulted the internet, the rig manual, the local RV supply store, and Kate’s nephew Nick. A plan was developed. We had a new development in rig quirks that would work to our advantage: The cabin heater was stuck in the “on” position, and could not be turned off. That meant that whenever the temperature dropped below 55 degrees, the heat came on – day or night, whether we were anywhere in the vicinity or not. That meant that the plumbing was safe. All we needed to do was empty the tanks and put in some antifreeze. Then the heater broke altogether. No cabin heat. The plumbing might freeze and explode. This problem was solved by moving the rig near an electrical outlet, plugging it in, setting up a small electric space heater inside the rig, and leaving it on 24/7. No sweat.

Rig plugged in at the stables.
Ingenious climate control system.
Now firmly ensconced and protected from disaster, we had a delightful weekend visit from nephew Nick and wife Jocelyn, kids Ossian and Clementine from Boise, and from Sarah and friend Charles from Missoula. We had a terrific time together, with good meals and good laughs.











Now for a really boring part. I’m compelled to share the full details. I'm duty-bound to characterize all of the untethered adventure, not just the fun parts. But you can skip over the next section if you’re only interested pretty sunsets and idyllic camp-outs.

We had a new problem: For several days we’d noticed a disconcerting shimmying in the rig whenever we accelerated. While Nick was visiting, we asked him to take a test drive to see what he thought. The answer: Bad torque converter. The solution: Pull the transmission and replace the converter. The price: kind of expensive, even including the family discount (if there is one). Nick said he’d also take a look at our heater controls to see if he could solve the problem of no heat. So, we decided instead of going straight to Portland next, we’d drive the rig to Boise, leave it with Nick, borrow Nick’s car, drive to Portland, stay with the grandkids, drive back to Boise, then drive home in the new, perfect rig. Simple. Problem solved, no sweat.

Before we left Idaho for Boise, the smoke alarm in the rig broke. It appeared to have dead batteries, so I installed new ones. This had the effect of setting off a continuous, unceasing, shrieking alarm. I pressed every combination of available buttons, but the alarm continued shrieking.  Eventually I gave up and placed the alarm and the batteries (separately) on the rig’s kitchen counter. I would deal with it later, and risk un-alarmed smoke inhalation in the meantime. [Note: The foregoing is important to remember – it foreshadows additional boring details to come later.]

So off we went from Sun Valley to Boise, smoke alarm-less and shimmying. We stopped at Nick and Jocelyn’s just long enough to shift most of our worldly belongings from the rig to Nick’s spare car (a Mercedes, of course). Then we continued on to Portland to visit Sam and Marisa, et al, making the entire Sun Valley-Boise-Portland trip in one ten-hour driving day.

We were immediately confronted with an opportunity to plunge into a frenetic activity involving many children. Marisa is the volunteer book lady for the kids’ elementary school, responsible for heading up the annual book drive. The plan: Assemble twenty or so kids aged seven to ten, and have them sort through and organize hundreds of donated books. The supervision: Us (oh, and a few of the children's mothers, but they quickly gravitated to the kitchen to chat and drink wine).

The book sorting was a model of organization and decorum.




In the end, somewhere north of 1,300 books were neatly sorted, boxed and stacked.

I was in charge of neat stacking.

 
Sam and Marisa left for a business/pleasure trip to New York City for a few days, and the grandkids were all ours. We ruled with an iron hand. I told Maya under no circumstances was she to eat in the downstairs playroom. She gave me a look. “We’re supposed to have fun!”



We compromised. Only waffles were to be eaten, and only on the rug. We were in firm control.

No staring at screens all day, we insisted. But it was raining outside.





(Screen not shown.)

 "Constructive activity only," we insisted.


                                    No comment. 

Halloween candy was stored up high, where no one could find it.




We did successfully promote some worthwhile activity, including an afternoon excursion to Powell’s City of Books.

Kellen was absorbed in the pursuit of literature.
Sawyer felt he might need several books, so he secured a large pull cart.

 
There were some quiet moments at home…….



Sarah came from Missoula to join us for the weekend, to help in the wrangling of the children. She arrived just in time for the cultural moment of our visit. Maya performed admirably at a recital, along with her fellow violin students.




Snack time after the performance.

Throughout our visit, many, many meals were prepared and consumed.


At last, all-nurturing Mom returned home, and the demanding grandparents and aunt were sent on their way.

In mid-November we set out from Portland back to Boise to pick up our rig. While we were away, Nick had contacted us with some news about the rig. It turned out we didn’t just need a torque converter, we needed an entirely new transmission. The family-discounted price tripled. Nick sent us a photo to show the terrible condition of our transmission fluid:

Terrible looking transmission fluid.

Having minimal experience with photos of transmission fluid, we agreed that this was some of the worst looking transmission fluid we’d ever seen.

The eight-hour drive from Portland to Boise had its compensations. The landscapes in eastern Oregon and western Idaho are breathtaking, and unlike anything we’ve seen anywhere else.


We arrived in Boise just in time to chat briefly with Nick and Jocelyn, go to bed, get up, and go. Nick did tell us that we got a bonus: He fixed our broken rig cabin heater. It was the control panel that had been broken; the layer of conducting material between the pushbuttons and the electronics had worn out. So he took apart the unit, cleaned it up, and replaced the missing conductor with a layer of lead from a soft pencil. Exactly what I would have done, if I had had a clue.

Here's how you fix a heater control unit. Precisely as I had thought.

Driving from Boise to the Bay area in late-ish November turned out not to be a great idea. We headed straight into a storm. It intensified in earnest just as we crossed Donner Pass, encountering snow, slush, wind, hail, accidents to the right and left of us. I thought wistfully of the full set of snow tires for the rig sitting in the garage in Palo Alto. Of course we wouldn’t need them, we thought. The long-term forecasts called for no snow anywhere on our route when we’d started this journey three weeks earlier. We made it as far as Auburn, retreated to a motel for the night, and drove on the next day, still through driving rain. All this wasn’t part of our vision of the carefree “untethered life," but we made it back to the Bay Area in one piece.


We crossed Donner Pass without having to resort to you-know-what.

Arriving at Judith’s house (Redwood City Judith) as the storm abated, we commenced to set up camp in her driveway. I connected to the outside water, turned it on, and nothing happened. I fiddled with the connections, changed out connectors, checked the hose, checked the plumbing while using only the onboard water source. Everything seemed to work perfectly in isolation, but put them all together – presto! No water.

Looks OK, but no water.

 
We could survive the night without water from an outside source, so I turned to making up our bed for the night. [Note: We’re back into the boring part, big time.] Our bed is the back seat of the rig, pulled forward via tracks in the floor and folded flat. I pulled it forward. It wouldn’t budge. I pushed and pulled, I lubricated the track, I contorted my body in order to shine a flashlight underneath the seat to examine the tracks for an obstacle. No luck. No bed.

Bedding is all ready, but no bed.

Judith kindly allowed us to sleep on her living room futon for the night and to share her bathroom, which we could reach by tiptoeing through her bedroom while she slept. Five times, in my case. This arrangement somehow didn’t seem ideal, so in the morning I redoubled my efforts to solve the rig problems. No progress.

This was on a Friday. I began searching for a resource that a) knew how to fix RV problems, b) was willing to work on our cool, almost one-of-a-kind, classic, collector’s item, never seen one, never even heard of it, rig, c) could fix the problems fast, because we were unable to live in it, and it was in fact our home, and d) was open the next day, a Saturday (hardly any RV shops are open on weekends for some reason).  Miraculously, I found one, 50 miles away, in Santa Cruz. A fifty-mile drive seemed paltry to stalwarts such as we, who had, for instance, already driven 225 miles from eastern Oregon to Boise at 30 miles per hour on an Interstate highway to reach a repair shop willing and able to fix an earlier disaster. And that was a repair shop run by a relative.

I also managed to find a replacement part that might solve the water intake problem. The next day, Saturday, RV Services of Santa Cruz did replace the water system part and water flow was restored. The stuck seat stumped them as much as it had stumped us, though.   Eventually they threw up their hands and said we should return on Wednesday (the day before Thanksgiving), and they’d keep trying.



Just at that moment, our friends Lora and Gerry came to our rescue. They would be out of town for a week, and they offered us the use of their lovely house in downtown Palo Alto. So we moved in, and spent Thanksgiving week in comfort while the rig repair saga continued.

Wednesday brought another trip to RV Services of Santa Cruz. After several hours – success! After studying the 1,000 page manual we’ve lugged around the country for 15 months, they were able to remove the entire seat and find the culprit(s). A screw had somehow rolled into the floor track and had become lodged in a mall hole. Then a battery (remember the smoke alarm batteries?) had somehow rolled into the track and become blocked by the screw.

Screw, literally.

Battery (Use your imagination).

 
Gil, a living hero -- and our bed!
While tarrying at the RV place I met Ryan, a school counselor from Scotts Valley who had just traveled all the way to Whitefish, Montana to purchase the vehicle of his dreams – a classic 1973 VW camper with 89,000 miles on it. He planned to fix it up and to travel the country in it with his fiancĂ©e. I tried to convey to Brian the proper mixture of adventurousness and masochism that would serve them well. I didn’t know whether I hoped for them that they’d get married before or after their adventure. But I wished them well.

Ryan and his rig.
In the meantime, what a great week! We fit in two victorious Stanford Women’s Basketball games, and watched the Stanford football team beat Cal and Notre Dame and qualify for the Pac 12 championship game.






We had a really good Thanksgiving with our local girls at the Smiths’.




While camping in Judith’s driveway, I tried to partly earn our keep by helping her sort out problems with her various devices.


As is well known, I'm an award-winning and highly skilled cyber expert and electronics technician. My award was for being humble.

Uh-oh. Back to the rig. A new warning light flashed on the dashboard. The brakes were gone. We took it to our local Palo Alto mechanics. They had some trouble getting the parts they needed, so we ended up camping in their parking lot for a couple of nights. It wasn’t the first time we’ve camped in a mechanic’s parking lot while awaiting repairs.



I’ll wrap up this blog post by noting that although we’ve reported on various rig disasters in the past 15 months, they haven’t tempered our enthusiasm for our adventure. Well, maybe the succession in the space of three weeks of the transmission failing, the brakes failing, the water system failing, and the bed breaking resulted in a little tempering – but we quickly recovered.

We’re now in the “sleeping around” phase of the odyssey. We’re off the road for the most part, keeping to ground on the West Coast, away from blizzards, floods, icy roads, and other threats. We’re never completely sure where we’ll be from one week to the next; we’re dependent in part on the kindness of friends for driveway campsites, spare beds, and short-term house sitting gigs. The impermanence and unpredictability makes us feel some relationship with, and empathy for, people who are truly homeless. I admit that during the run of vehicle problems and dislocations I began to feel like a First World, present day Job (Why God, why?).  But I know a lot of truly homeless people. They don’t have cars they can use to get around town and do the shopping. They take buses – sometimes three or four buses just to get from a warm, dry place to spend the day to a warm, dry place to spend the night. They don’t have reliable (or sometimes any) health insurance. They don’t have friends offering warm beds and beautiful homes to use for respite. We’re lucky and we know it.

We’ll stay in the Bay area for a while longer now, and then head for Portland for Christmas. Merry Christmas all, and to all a good night.