XLV: Lost in Translation

When we caught Jim, I told The American to put him in the boot to secure him while we decided what to do with him.

Proof, then, that she does not speak proper English.

XLIV: In Which We Make Our Own Fun

Utter boredom drove us to play hide and seek. We gave Jim a head start . . .

He doesn't exactly blend in.

But then he tried to disarm the security system.

So we put him in holding . . .

And then behind bars . . .

Have I mentioned The American's toy tiger?  His name is Canaille. Despite the name, we've found him amenable to some training.

There may have been other shenanigans and/or misuse of laundry.

Then came a child's birthday party. We waited in abject horror for what was to come:

And also of her shirt:

The toys, however, were not so bad.

XLIII: Once by the Pacific

This morning I set out with Jim (yes, Jim as opposed to John, who chose to stay home) with the idea of taking him to San Quentin.

But damn it all, we got a bit turned around and ended up somewhat out of our way.

Don't talk to me about my sense of direction, John; I wasn't the one driving, after all. And San Quentin isn't even on this map:

Predictably, we ended up out in the middle of absolutely nowhere, the most boring place to be. Though some of it reminded me of home:

A lookout spot at Point Reyes

And after I pointed out the sunglasses were ridiculous given how cloudy it was:

It's not quite the moors, but . . .

There was a lot of driving involved, then a lot of walking, and for what gain? Not even a spectral dog or government conspiracy to keep me interested. Cows, though. Many, many cows . . .

No, John, I don't have a picture of the cows. Why would I?

There was a ranch, just for her, however:

Then, just for something different . . .

Yes, John, we climbed into a tree. What's that? K-I-S . . . You're sick. You realize that, I hope?

There was a lighthouse, by the by:

Again with the sunglasses.

Not a very big one. And after 308 stairs to get down to it, too.

We did see what supposed experts assured us was a juvenile grey whale. No, John, it was not in the lighthouse; it was down in the water. If it had been in the lighthouse, that might have been a mystery worth looking into.

After walking back up the 308 stairs, we went into a town that calls itself Inverness but has nothing on the real thing (by which I mean Scotland, of course), and had a late lunch at a Czech pub called Vladimir's.

A Czech pub in Inverness? Run by a vampire?

With appropriately bloody decor.

After which we came home over the Golden Gate Bridge:

If only Alcatraz were still an option . . .