Suzy Says

The handsome and agile Roscoe

One of the many great things about being in LA was the ability to sleep in until the sun was up – and it was always sunny. Back here in Hooterville (and probably in LA), it is the unlovely time of the year where 6 am looks just about the same as 12 am.

I hate getting up in the darkness as much as I like sleeping in it, and the worst part is having to keep the kitties in until that slacker Sol gets his butt up and going. I know the time changes this weekend, but will that make it better or worse? I can never remember and the mere thought of it is too mathy for my two brain cells, much like splitting a restaurant check. Whatever way it is, I will be discombobulated – more than usual, anyway – by the overnight flight to Atlanta.

I think this is how we humans cope, by forgetting how cold and dark the winter is and how hot and sunny the summer is and the fact that we all have an expiration date. Every year I seem to be surprised by how “early” it gets cold and dark.

This week, it has been cold enough for me to put the heat on when I get up, and it serves as something of a pacifier for the cats as they bask in front of it and stop asking to go out. Even Audrey is not immune to its charms, though it palls on her faster than it does the boys and I cave in to her insistent insistence. That’s Audrey. Yesterday I happened to catch her rearing up on her back legs and chasing poor Luna away. It was like a real life cartoon as the 75 pound dog fled in horror from the tiny, stripy cat.

Even Audrey has been sleeping with me at night, though at the foot of the bed. The mysterious Mr. Roscoe loses his usual aloofness and cuddles right up to me all night. Sometimes he doesn’t bother to get up if it’s too cold for his taste. Surprisingly, Clyde, the mama’s boy, has been sleeping on the couch, though he does climb up on me for cuddles while I drink my coffee.

The boys seem to have been going through a rowdy phase. You may be able to see that Roscoe is missing some fur above his eye, and also sports a slightly torn ear on the same side. This morning, I noticed a chunk of fur missing on the back of Clyde’s neck. I guess boys will be boys!

On Saturday, I made a special appearance at the jobette. The guy who has taken over Saturdays from me was at a jobette-related event in the City. I made good use of my time by selling a piece of art for $150*. I seem to be good at selling expensive artwork on Saturdays (this summer, I sold a $500 painting from the window before I even had a chance to take my coat off).

While I was selling art and telling people where Glass Beach is, Megan was walking the beautiful and shiny Miss Star by Big River, one of our favorite places. It’s one of Star’s favorite places, too. She started squeaking with excitement when Megan put on her signal to turn off on the road to the beach.

They walked for five miles, and Star was “100% good”, not responding to barking dogs or passing bikes or horses. Megan texted me pictures during the walk, so I felt like I was there with them.

“I thought I would bring the walk to you.”

“Just had some water. I love it here!”

“Maybe I’ll find a four leaf clover! I feel pretty lucky already, though.”

“Where did the ocean go? It was there this morning.”

It really brightened my day, and Megan’s too. She needed it after a particularly tragic week at work in the ER. That night, I came by for dinner and of course, some Star petting. It’s great to see how happy and trusting she is now. It’s funny how love will do that.

*It was a beautiful hand made skirt which looked like delicate, multi-colored feathers. The guy who bought it was from New York and thought it was incredibly reasonable. He bought it for his sister Megan, who was baby sitting his dog while he was here on vacation at a friend’s house in Hooterville.

I gave myself about the same amount of time to drive to LAX, return the rental car, take the shuttle to the airport and go through the dehumanizing process that is required of those who have the temerity to fly as I did to drive all the way to Santa Rosa from Hooterville.

I also avoided the freeways en route to LAX, a wise choice since every time I passed one, it looked like a parking lot as far as the eye could see. Arriving at the rental car place, I unloaded the car and waited for a minion to make sure I hadn’t wrecked it. Fortunately, the wait was much shorter than the wait to pick up the car. Then it was on the shuttle, to be next to last decanted.

By the time I had undressed and dressed and gotten to the gate, there was about 20 minutes to wait. I had given myself three hours, and if there had been a delay at the car rental place or Security, even that might not have been enough time.

Fortunately, all the hassle was on the LA end. At the Santa Rosa airport, there is one luggage belt, about 10 feet long, and it only took a few minutes for my luggage to appear. Then it was a short walk to reclaim Miss Scarlett and be on our way.

Needless to say, the traffic seemed like a total breeze. Driving through the Valley, it was wonderful to breathe clean air and admire the rolling hills ablaze with yellow, red and orange vines, our version of fall colors.

I got home in time to see Megan before she headed off to work. She told me that the kitties had taken their birds to her house, and also hung out on her car while I was away. They certainly missed me – the next day, they hardly played outside, despite the sunny weather, and they have slept with me every night since I got back. I feel kind of guilty about the upcoming Atlanta trip.

It seems only appropriate that I am back home in Hooterville on the fourth anniversary of my move here. Although I enjoyed the trip to LA, it made me appreciate my quiet country home more than ever. I think it’s safe to say that the bumpkinization process is complete.

On my last day in LA, I took a walking tour of downtown. The tour guide is a Southern California native who is passionate about Los Angeles and its history. We met at Angels Flight, the shortest railway in the world:

It was built at the turn of the 20th century to connect the mansions that were then on Bunker Hill to the shopping district below. After the 1929 market crash, the mansions were abandoned and became brothels. Eventually they were replaced by the skyscrapers you see now.

It costs fifty cents to ride Angels Flight when its operational. Unfortunately it is closed following a derailment last month, but hopefully it will open again soon.

Across the street is Grand Central Market:

This was built in 1917 and would have served the mansions’ servants. Now it’s a bustling, vibrant collection of restaurants and food stalls and well worth a visit.

Just a couple of blocks away is the iconic Bradbury Building, perhaps best known from the movies “DOA” and “Bladerunner”. Here is the exterior:

And the interior, flooded with light from a huge skylight:

Photos do not do it justice. Even the elevators are masterpieces of metalwork:

Across the street is the Million Dollar Theater, built by Sid Grauman before the Chinese Theater. Just down the street are the El Dorado Apartments, where Charlie Chaplin lived when his films premiered at the Million Dollar Theater.

When City Hall was built, there was a height restriction of 150 feet for buildings downtown. The builders of the landmark building were allowed a one day exception to the rule, long enough to get the blueprints approved. The idea was that this would be the grand symbol of the city:

Across the street from City Hall is the Cal Trans building:

This is the only building in California that extends out over the sidewalk. If Cal Trans can’t do it, who can?

I loved this art deco building:

Note the lack of palm trees in the downtown area. This is because most filming – and LA is the most filmed city in the world – takes place here. It would spoil the illusion that it was New York or Chicago with palm trees in the shot! Filming was taking place at several locations as we walked by, and I noticed that near the buses and equipment there were yellow signs saying odd things like “Biscuit”. This is code for the movie name, so that people don’t mob the set looking for, say, George Clooney or Matt Damon.

It was fascinating to see how downtown LA is changing and growing. Once elegant hotels became skid row accommodations, and now are being converted to condos and lofts. Vacant storefronts were taken over by artists looking for affordable gallery space, and now the Art Walk attracts up to 50,000 people each month. The artists’ presence has made the area more desirable, so boutiques and higher end restaurants and bars are slowly moving in. You can see the gentrification process happening right before your eyes, a rarity in such a well-known and populous city.

I took a break from the stress of driving and took the Metro to the heart of Hollywood. I was lucky that the place I’m staying and the place I was going were both on the Metro line. Here’s the clean, lovely station at Hollywood and Highland:

After the hell of driving the past couple of days, it felt like science fiction to be whisked to my destination in a mere ten minutes, for $1.50. Practically teleportation!

I was headed to the Hollywood Museum, lodged in the old Max Factor building. Here is the glamorous lobby, which you can see is very Suzy:

The famous Make Up Rooms are still there, each painted with colors that would be the most flattering for different hair colors:

The Blondes room is dedicated to the greatest blonde of all, the immortal Marilyn Monroe. Several of her belongings were on display, including the iconic dress she wore when entertaining troops in Korea, and a delicate pair of see through shoes with rhinestone details, among other things:

It sounds silly, but somehow seeing her actual clothing which touched her living, breathing body made her seem like a real person to me instead of a legend. It was very moving.

Upstairs there was memorabilia from both TV and the movies, including the bottle from “I Dream of Jeannie”:

When I was a kid, I wanted to live in Jeannie’s glittery, purple velvet bottle. I still do.

I stopped by Grauman’s Chinese Theater:

to stand in Marilyn’s footsteps among the maddening crowds.

I had a commission from my beautiful niece to fulfill at Sephora. I was charmingly assisted by a fabulous gay Scottish guy. I asked him how he lived with the traffic and he said, “Medication, darling. Medication.”

And a better one it was. It was also a beautiful one:

I love palm trees. They always make me happy.

I headed to Santa Monica, via the quite alarming freeway. You know it’s a bad sign when there are traffic lights on the on ramps. Once on the freeway, you are either a four to six lane parking lot or racing along with people merrily cutting across multiple lanes without signaling on both sides of your car. It didn’t take long to notice the Angeleno driving style is do what you want, and do it fast. Also there is no need to wave thank you, use your signals, or bother with those ridiculous traffic regulations. No left turn? No problem! Do it anyway!

I was glad to leave the freeway free for all and park my new girlfriend at the beach. It’s hard to believe that this calm blue body of water is the same as the wild, rocky sea back home in Hooterville:

The famous Pier is the westernmost end of the famous Route 66, completed in 1926:

It’s a charming place, with an old-fashioned holiday feel to it. I drank some icy lemonade in the warm sunshine and watched the surfers. Santa Monica was a favorite haunt of the Beach Boys’ Dennis Wilson, the only Beach Boy who surfed. Beautiful, sexy, wild Dennis lived a brief life that was all those things. He packed more into his 39 years on this planet than most of us do in 80. I stopped at his favorite watering hole, Chez Jay, which Dennis would have found mostly unchanged:

and what used to be Brother Studios, which Dennis and his brother Carl set up in the 1970s and is now apparently condos near the fancy shopping district.

The drive back to the motel was in keeping with the motif set up at the car rental agency. It was a mere 13 miles to the motel, but it took me over two hours to get there. I thought that just taking Santa Monica Boulevard back would be better than the freeways, but it was just as bad. I wonder how the millions of people who live here deal with the traffic day in and day out. No matter how rich you are and how nice your car is, you’re still trapped in the gridlock with the rest of us.

Welcome to Los Angeles

Well, that was not fun.

I blithely assumed that it would be fast and easy to fly to LA from Santa Rosa. Only a two hour drive to the airport instead of a four hour one! A terminal the size of my house with parking that’s a mere $9 a day (instead of $18 at SFO)! All these halves should equal twice as good, in Suzy math.

The plane was the size of my car and my teensy seat was located right beside the wing/engine for maximum alarming noise capacity. The plane noises, however, were nothing compared to the kids cluttering up the plane. It was like a school bus with wings. Don’t kids ever go to school*?

Little did I know that the scrunched, noisy, and bumpy flight would be the fun part of the day.

Once decanted at LAX, I found the area where the shuttle buses to the rental car places theoretically stopped to pick up would-be renters. About four of them swept by, packed to the gills. This should have given me a hint of the horrors to come, but it didn’t.

Finally a shuttle deigned to stop for me, and after shoehorning me in there, the driver said, “No mas” and went on his merry way. I admired the bougainvillea and birds of paradise growing by the side of the road as I clung to the overhead bar. Arriving at the rental car place, I was greeted by the sight of a line of epic proportions. The last time I had seen anything like this was in post-glasnost Russia 20 years ago, where they were waiting to buy cigarettes.

It took an hour and a half to get to the head of the line. I wordlessly handed over my confirmation, driver’s license, and credit card. As per usual, it took me about a minute to conclude my business, much like waiting in airports back in the day when you had to check in with actual people.

The car itself is really nice, a brand-new Ford Fusion. Don’t tell Miss Scarlett that I’m cheating on her with a younger model. It’s what you do in LA.

The long wait had not improved the traffic or my mood. I also hadn’t eaten all day. I spotted a Whole Foods, like a beacon of hope in the darkening sky. I pulled in and picked up a picnic dinner (rosemary roasted chicken breast, golden beet salad, and potato salad for $8), and more importantly, a sky blue bottle of Skyy vodka and some blueberry lemonade.

Back in the car, I sadly watched the arrival time on the GPS tick upwards, from 7:15 pm to 7:39. It was nearly 8:00 by the time I reached the motel. I had left the house at 10 am for a 1:45 flight arriving at 3:15. According to my friends at Google Maps, I could have driven here faster, in a mere 8 hours instead of 10.

Good to know.

I walked into my assigned room and was greeted by incessant barking of a Baskervillian type. I couldn’t tell where it was coming from, but I wasn’t going to find out. I returned to the front desk and the unapologetic and unconcerned clerk assigned me to a different, bark-free room.

At last! I made a drink and put on the baseball game. As I ate my picnic, the Tigers lost to the Red Sox, thus putting the perfect capper to the perfect day.

Tomorrow – or today – is, as Miss Scarlett’s namesake observed, another day, and it has to be a better one. Right?

*I posed this semi-rhetorical question to Megan via text, and she responded, “No. That’s why they can’t spell pneumonia.” The hospital just hired someone to work in the ER who spelled it “numonia”.

Travel has certainly ramped up during the last quarter of the year (can you tell I’m swamped with quarter-end tasks?). First there was the sudden, yet long (the driving part) trip to Reno, then a flying visit to San Francisco. Tomorrow I head to Los Angeles for a few days, and about a week after I get back, I’ll be off to Atlanta.

The Atlanta visit is mandated by our friends at the SEC – yet another gift from Bernie Madoff. I will drive four hours, then fly for five (overnight) to have a two hour meeting the following day. Unlike my boss/partner, I am not tough (or crazy) enough to turn around and head back to the airport the same day, like I did on that hell trip to Detroit last year, so I’ll stay overnight and fly to San Francisco the next day. Having an equal enthusiasm for the four hour drive following the five hour flight, I’ll probably stay in the city overnight and then head back to Hooterville.

Somehow I have to fit in both jobs and working on the smartphone app during all this transit. Wish me luck!

Sunset over the Pacific

You may not have visited our little corner of the world, but you’ve probably seen it.

The Village was the setting for the long-running series “Murder She Wrote” (fun fact: Jessica Fletcher’s house in the TV show is now a B&B), even though it was supposedly set in Maine, on the other side of the country. Our rocky, wild coast often stands in for New England in the magical world of movies and television. Most of our early settlers back in the 1850s were from the east coast, and built houses that would look right at home in a New England village.

“Same Time Next Year”, a movie starring Alan Alda and Ellen Burstyn as lovers who meet up once a year for many years, was filmed at a lovely resort just south of the Village. This property was closed for five years, but never lost its cult following. People always called to ask when it would re-open and to say how much they loved and missed it.

A couple of weeks ago, their prayers were answered and the hotel opened their doors once again after a lengthy repair and renovation process. I was invited to the opening celebration (though I missed the complimentary overnight stay the rest of my jobette co-workers enjoyed while I was spaing it up in Reno).

I followed the slow line of cars down the precipitous driveway. When I checked in with one of the uniformed attendants, he stopped me when I started to spell my last name and asked me if I was Jonathan’s sister. He was a fellow firefighter, and it was another wonderful small town moment. I parked the car and made my way up to the main building.

Outside the building, there were waiters circulating with trays of nibbles and wine. Inside, there was a table entirely devoted to a mountain of bite-sized desserts, another with cheese, crackers and accoutrements, and an open bar (two of the most beautiful words in the English language, besides “room service” and “taxi”). The views were breathtaking:

I met quite a few people I knew, as well as co-workers, and everyone was delighted to see this landmark welcoming guests again. Dr. Karen was there, and I thanked her for her very kind gesture. She brought flowers and a card to Megan at work one night. Dr. Karen was very saddened by Schatzi’s loss, and once again said what a remarkable animals she was. Karen reassured me that when dogs take their own path like Schatzi did, that it is peaceful. They know what they’re doing.

I took a moment to look out over the endless sea and think about those I have loved and lost, and to be grateful that they were part of my life, I was part of theirs, and that they live on in my heart.

The (Im)Patient

Little Miss Audrey was at it again…

Not closing herself in the dresser drawer all night, or madly clawing at the door to go out, or refusing to come in at night, or terrifying the neighborhood dogs*, though she does all that. After all, she is Audrey. She was allergic to fleas again, just like she was around the same time last year.

She was scratching all the time, losing her fur, and all scabalicious again. The boys were fine and I didn’t have any bites (other than this year’s plague of mosquitoes), but a flea must have hopped onto Audrey or breathed on her or something, so a trip to the vet was in order.

I was prepared for the evil ways of the Evil Genius, so I had extra towels and a garbage bag to carry the towels that would inevitably bear the poop of wrath back home to wash. However, Audrey surprised me by not pooping, though she did howl the entire way to the Village. Not even Springsteen could cheer her up, or cover up her dolorous chorus.

I think we all know who the real Boss is.

She had a ZZ Top style foam beard when I arrived at the vet’s, and the bars of the carrier were festooned with extra foam, just for extra fun. I made quite the entrance with a howling, foamy, balding, scabby demon cat. Exorcist, anyone?

The kind technician cleaned Audrey up and did the initial check up (Audrey is the exact same feathery weight as last year). She told me how very sorry the entire staff was about Schatzi, and added that they were glad that they had not had to do the deed. She said she would not have been able to hold back tears, and thought that Dr. Karen might not have been able to, either. They care for all their patients, but some are special. Schatzi, she said, was beloved by all of them.

Dr. Carl once again worked his magic on Audrey. I don’t think he believes my tales of the Evil Genius, who is fuzzy putty in his capable hands. He gave her a steroid shot and some antibiotics, and did a blood panel to make sure there was nothing else wrong with her. Fortunately, she is fine other than her flea intolerance – why not, she’s intolerant of everything else – and that was a relief.

Needless to say, she howled all the way home. A few miles from home, on a particularly curvy stretch of road, we came across an accident scene**, and were stopped in our tracks for so long that I almost turned the car off. Audrey did not turn off the entire time we were sitting there, and when we got home, I discovered that she had thrown up in the carrier. Still better than poop, though. She was also foamy again, but before I could wipe it off, she ran away, not to be seen until dinner time, when she acted like nothing had happened.

*Schatzi’s boyfriend Yellow Dog still comes around looking for her after two months. He always gives me this pleading look like, “Where is she? Where are you hiding her?” He’s such a nice dog. It is heart-breaking, but it’s also really sweet.

**I later learned that someone had swerved to avoid an animal and their car ended up on its side, as often happens in these cases. The people inside were OK, the car less so.

Postcard Day

Megan and I were invited to a wine tasting at a friend’s house in the Village on Saturday night.

We thought it would be fun to stay overnight in the Village instead of trekking back home in the dark after the party, so we decided to stay at a hotel. There was a fire blazing on the lobby hearth despite the 80 degree day and a very slow desk clerk, so Megan went outside to avoid wilting. Finally checked in, I received an actual brass key and a map to help us find the room.

Needless to say, I still managed to have trouble finding not only the room, but my sister. The room was set in a separate building in the hotel’s gardens. It was very Victorian looking and smelling, with a fireplace and brass beds. We dropped off our things, discovered the wifi didn’t work (what else is new?), opened a few windows, and headed out to get some dinner.

The pub, where we usually go on the rare occasions when we go out to dinner, was packed to the gills, so we tried the café down the street. We were eventually seated at an outdoor table, but after twenty minutes, we had still not seen a server. Maybe waitresses are mythical creatures, like unicorns. We left, and they may not have noticed yet. Third time was the charm, as we found a little place where we got sandwiches before heading to the party.

Everyone from the jobette was the party, and also Dr. Sue, who it was nice to see in a non-professional capacity. I realized how much I have become a part of this little community in the four short years I have lived here. We tasted wine from Bordeaux, Napa, and Sonoma. True to form, I liked the Sonoma the best and so did Megan. I wonder if Dad would have preferred the French wine. I’m sure he would have enjoyed the party.

We headed back to the hotel, jumped into our PJs and opened a bottle of non-fancy local wine and watched a little HGTV. I have to admit that I love those shows where people are looking for a house and freak out over things like no granite counter tops or walk in closets. They wouldn’t last a day in my hippie hovel, with no closets and a three foot wide counter, made of (gasp!) painted wood. This gives me a delightful feeling of superiority, an unusual experience for me.

In the morning, Megan bravely ventured out to get coffee. She was gone so long that I began to worry a little, though what could happen in the Village on a sunny Sunday morning? It turned out that she was talking to a couple of homeless dog owners about how to get their pets spayed for free and how important it was. We “euthanize” a dog every fifteen seconds in this country. If people only spayed and neutered, there would be no more homeless pets. Imagine a world where dogs are rare and there is a waiting list to adopt! Kudos to my friend and fellow blogger Mike, whose family adopted a homeless dog from Greece, where the economic crisis has caused a dramatic increase in shelter animals.

We checked out of the hotel on the second try (the first time, there was a sign saying “Back Soon”), and wandered around the Village. As you can see, it was a picture postcard card day. There was no sign of fog, and it was warm even first thing in the morning. It was fun to play tourist in our own town before heading home to get ready for the work week. I always have fun with my sister.

Halloween San Francisco Style

I’m back home with the kitties and it’s a beautiful day. It’s warm enough to have the fans on – summer’s last hurrah. I can tell the cats missed me. They came in on their own yesterday evening and took turns sitting on my lap. As I write, they are all nearby.

Yesterday, I packed up the car, had breakfast at Polker’s, and checked out of my home away from home. I headed to Victor’s to pick up the traditional pizza, and discovered that I didn’t have my debit/credit card.

Uh oh.

I retraced my steps to Polker’s, and as I walked through the door, the waitress came up with my card. “I know why you’re here!” she said cheerfully.

I was much more cheerful as I went to Trader Joe, got gas for the car, and headed toward the iconic Bridge in the brilliant sunshine. Even though I really just worked on this brief trip, it was a good one. I listened to the baseball playoffs on my iPhone until cell service gave out, picked up some fresh cider at Gowan’s, and arrived home to be greeted by Clyde.

While I was enjoying my extreme takeout pizza, there was a knock at the door. It was Mark’s wife with a bag full of kale grown by a friend of hers. Welcome home!

Just Being

I woke up to a beautiful morning in San Francisco. Not a cloud or wisp of fog in the clear blue sky, and the wild parrots wished me good morning in their inimitable, raucous voices as they soared into the sunlight.

A taxi ride took me through my old neighborhood, where I noted what had changed and what hadn’t, and ended up at a building right next door to the one I used to work in for so many years. My boss/partner and I were there to meet with a money manager we are considering hiring. The meeting went really well, and after business was concluded, our host showed us some of the art collection his company owns.

To my delight and surprise, the paintings currently on display in their gallery were by the great Gil Elvgren. I have never seen originals of his works, and they are stunning. Also much bigger than I thought. I asked, “Are these…original Elvgrens?” He said yes, and I think he was entertained by how impressed I was.

When our meetings were over, Boss and I had lunch and caught up with each other. It was really great spending some time with him, and we got a lot done.

On my way back to the modest motel, the struggling little urban garden above caught my eye. It was a day of unexpected beauty in unexpected places.

Traffic on the Bridge

Happy divorce day to me! My long-awaited divorce becomes final today, after a decade of being separated and dealing with paperwork. I am celebrating with a brief visit to San Francisco. It’s purely coincidental that I’m here on D(ivorce) Day; I had a day of meetings planned on Thursday and hopefully lunch with my partner/boss.

I’m celebrating with a glass of wine while I wait for my friends at Lemongrass to bring me a fashionably late dinner.

Heading home on Friday, but if I can get it together – always a big IF – I’d like to go to the De Young Museum for the Bulgari exhibit. Yes, Bulgari is vulgari, but it should be fabulous nonetheless. A visitor to the jobette today told me that there is a wonderful exhibit of butterflies in the nearby Conservatory of Flowers, so maybe I can fit that in, too.

We’ll see…

In the meantime, cheers! Here’s to freedom, closure, and delivery Thai food (where is it, anyway?)!

My week got off to a great start with my car not starting in the Safeway parking lot on a rainy Monday morning. I stopped off to pick up a few things on my way to the jobette, got in the car, turned the key, and heard a very discouraging noise.

Figuring that it was likely a user issue, I tried again a couple of more times with no result. Unsurprising, but not the results I was pointlessly hoping for.

I called Fernando, the mechanic who fixes Miss Scarlett when ministrations are needed which are beyond my brother’s many capabilities. He said he’d come by and see if he could start the car. Ironically, the Rolling Stones’ “Start Me Up” was the last song on the radio when I turned the car off.

Fernando was unable to resurrect the car, but offered to drive me to the jobette and then call the tow truck for me. I handed over the keys to my car and got in his. As we hit the highway, we saw the tow truck. Fernando chased it down the road, honking and waving. The truck pulled over and agreed to pick up my car.

I realized how lucky I was that this happened in The Big Town instead of in San Francisco, where I am going tomorrow. I would have no idea what to do there, and it would probably cost a lot more to get the car up and running again.

It turned out to be the starter. It was the original, almost 20 year old starter, and the new one is warrantied for the life of the car. It was nearly $500 to fix it ($300 of it being the part and a further $70 for the tow, which the insurance company will reimburse), but I’m glad that my car keys aren’t just a collection of pretty, shiny objects today.

Wish me luck heading to the city tomorrow!