The score was tied at 2-2 at the bottom of the ninth inning at Fenway Park. Boston Red Sox fans groaned in disbelief as the Baltimore Orioles took a 3-2 lead in the tenth. And then the magic happened. With men on first and third base, a walk-off home run for Boston ended the game at 5-3. The crowd jumped to its feet, belting out “Dirty Water,” the 1966 Spandells hit. So much fun. So much singing! The voices of thirty-seven-thousand people rejoicing to Neil Diamond’s Sweet Caroline in the 7^th inning stretch (so good! so good! so good!) and Take Me Out to the Ballgame in the 8^th. It all added to the palpable feeling of camaraderie. These folks know how to have fun.

It was like déjà vu all over again. Rushing into the Snowy Owl Theater at Icicle Creek Center for the Performing Arts in Leavenworth, a sculpture near the entrance stopped me in my tracks. Could it be? The artist had to be Richard Beyer, whose whimsical aluminum sculpture of a couple holding marketing baskets I’d just seen in the Mercer Island Town Center, and whose Waiting for the Interurban - a group huddled at a bus stop near the Fremont Bridge - epitomizes Seattle. A quick Google search during intermission confirmed my hunch.

“You are so lucky,” my waitress told me. “It’s gonna be sunny and warm through Friday.” 

“Isn’t it like this most of the summer?” I asked, unaware that the peninsula in southern Washington is famously foggy and cold. Earlier that day, I’d cursed the sun as it beat down while I struggled to sync my phone app with an electric charging station. On an 85-degree, cloudless day, sweating with palpable range anxiety, I worried I’d never get my electric car fully charged. After driving 172 miles, I had 106 miles left. Not enough to explore the peninsula, let alone get home.

My whole family was gathering in Chicago for a bat mitzvah. I arrived at Union Station a few minutes early to meet my son’s train, due in from New York. But the reader board posted a delay, so I waited. And waited. And waited. Frustrated, I went to the information booth to ask, “What’s going on with the train from New York?” 

Long pants, long sleeves, and a head net covering my face did nothing to prevent a horde of mosquitos from devouring me. With nowhere to run, nowhere to hide, I tearfully admitted defeat. Together with my husband and then-young sons, we broke down our campsite and hiked out of the North Cascade Mountains. It was too late to drive back to Mercer Island. The big question was “where to sleep tonight?” As newcomers to the Pacific Northwest, we knew nothing about eastern Washington. We searched for the biggest nearby city on our AAA map.

Alfie the Cat stretched himself out on a banquette where he’d been gazing out the windows in the hallway of our 3rd floor hotel room. A look-alike for our dearly departed tabby cat, Nile, he welcomed our caresses and rolled himself over for belly rubs. We were staying at the Royal Crescent Hotel & Spa in Bath, England, after a week of walking the Cotswold Way.

A large snake slithered across the footpath just inches from our boots on our first day walking the Cotswolds, 800 square miles of charming villages and towns in southwest England. Though totally uninterested in us, the snake added drama to the first hour of a weeklong walk. Our guidebook identified it as a nonaggressive, though venomous, rare British Adder. Whew!