XLVI: Plaid & Princesses

We started our day like this:

No, John, it's not a "love knot." It's not any kind of knot. We didn't literally begin our day tied together with a scarf, did we? No. Because that would be . . . Look, I was only trying to give them a hint as to what we did today. But clearly they're not smart enough to understand, so I'll make it easier.

And for those who still don't follow, I'll put it plainly: we went to the Scottish Highland Gathering & Games. Because The American, as it turns out, is Scottish on her mother's side (Clan Innes, which is the tartan you see in the scarf picture).

While there we had traditional foods such as bangers, beans, fish, and chips:

We saw Clydesdales, too.

And, of course, a lot of men in kilts playing bagpipes. Which, I must point out, makes my violin playing sound practically angelic.

Some played while walking.

Others played while standing in a circle.

We had traditional candy called tablet, but no one bothered to take a picture of it.

Later in the afternoon we had invitations to a royal birthday party.

John is ever the ladies' man.

Apparently it's bad form to decline when the princess asks you if you'd like a ride in her carriage.

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 . . .

Intermission

THE AMERICAN: (while reading something) No shit, Sherlock.

SHERLOCK: Hm? (to John) Was she talking to me? I wasn't listening.

JOHN: You never listen.

SHERLOCK: Mm . . . (beat) What?

XLII: State of the Union

She took us to Washington D.C. for the weekend. And by "us" I mean me and John; after all, it wouldn't be safe to take Dear Jim into the heart of the nation's capitol, now would it?

We stayed near Dupont Circle, which might mean something to some of you, but at any rate the room was quite large and very nice.

It had a vanity area separate from the shower . . .

And even a little table and chairs to eat at.

John was very impressed with the walk-in shower and the kitchenette and such. It really doesn't take much to dazzle him.

Meanwhile, we began receiving these kinds of images on The American's mobile phone:

He is, quite literally, in the closet.

The following day we met up with a friend (of hers, not ours, obviously). There was brunch and gelato and a lot of walking in the heat before we went to see what we'd actually flown all the way out there to see, namely her play.

I wasn't really paying attention, so I can't say much about it except there was air con, which was nice.

After that: more walking. We ate at a place called Elephant & Castle. Did she get bangers and mash? (Yes, it was on the menu. As were fish and chips, shepherd's pie . . .) NO. She got a salad. A salad.

This is the friend. Her name is Ellen. John thinks
she's cute, but then John thinks all women are "cute."

And then ever more walking. We saw this:

And of course had to take our picture with it . . .

(No, John, it doesn't look like I'm trying to escape;
I am, in fact, trying to escape.)

It was unmercifully hot, I must say. Which is why she went and put her feet in the fountain.

Yes. Even though it said not to. But there were so many people doing it, so of course that makes it all right. (Yes, John, that was sarcasm.)

And may I point out her parents are Veterans?

Meanwhile, more pictures on the phone:

(I take this to mean he came out
of the closet at some point.)

Finally, we went indoors again. To a museum. They had a collection of Stradivarius violins. But of course The American was far more pleased with this:

She started talking in a funny voice, saying, "Oh, Kermie" . . . She's not a pig, John, she's actually lost weight . . . What? . . . No, I don't get it.

After the museum we walked a bit more. Stopped to sit here.

Then had dinner and called it a night.

Flew home today and found this:

The little hooligans had cornered him on the light fixture. For once I'm inclined to say the kids are all right.