We had a long drive up from Oregon's Gold Coast where Math Man had an amazing time golfing, and Barnacle Boy, Crash and I explored the environs. We clambered over dunes, took a horse ride across the beach, saw a whale cavorting with her calf off the rocks, and tried windsurfing. (So far I am on the only person I know who can get sea sick on a windsurfer - but it was fun up until then!)
The promised treat at the end of the drive was a late dinner at a restaurant we'd all enjoyed two weeks past after another visit to Powell's Books (the largest independent book store in the country - Barnacle Boy got lost in it, figuratively and literally! (And we bought so many books, I had to do some quick rearranging of things at the airport this morning to avoid fees for overweight baggage.)
After dinner, Math Man and I headed to the car to dig out the map to the hotel for the night, while the boys took one last look around. As I'm pulling my camera off the seat and throwing it over my shoulder, a man comes running out of the restaurant, crying, "Sir, excuse me, sir!" At that moment, Math Man turned around, and the man stopped dead as he saw the inside of the car. "Oh," he said, "your car looks just like ours!" Thus began this odd conversation about THEIR rented car (parked two spaces up from ours, and indeed identical) and ours: "It's a nice rig, yes?" "Uh, yes..."
He thought we had broken into his car. Maybe I should stop wearing black shirts?
In all seriousness, I'm glad that the gentleman was not (as my brothers would say) "packing", but seemed an over-socialized NPR sort -- "Excuse me, sir. Please stop rifling my car"?? It could have, as Crash would say, ended badly.
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