Part 1 is here.
By now, I'm far less intrigued by this home than I am by my continued popularity in this august neighborhood.
Another walk around San Rafael last week brought more effusive greetings from the denizens. One gentleman in tweed called out, "Betty and Byron send their love!"
"And love to Betty and Byron!" I sang in reply. "We're due for a long chat at the club, over some dry martinis."
He looked puzzled, but nodded.
Albert and I hiked a steep private drive to catch a glimpse of the bubble house's back side. The blue butt, as it were. On the way, the postman smiled and gave a salute.
At the top of the knoll stand two impressive estates, each staking a claim, one to the east and one to the west. Rather than snap some pictures, I decided to play by the rules. As Albert and I made our way back down again, the owner of the east side manor was driving up, and waving so vigorously her car veered in our general direction; I feared we'd be killed by kindness.
I have two possible explanations for all the affection those in tweeds and the Bettys and Byrons throw in our general direction.
Explanation #1: Aristocracy is not a matter of money; it doesn't matter what you drive, where you live, what you wear -- breeding will out. A tribe recognizes one of its own. How to put this without sounding conceited? It's the way one walks, the set of the shoulders, the upward tilt of the chin, an aquiline nose. The ability to spell "aquiline" without autocorrect (work in progress). It's stature and bearing. Your mother told you to stand straight? Why, I have a broomstick stuck up my ass; always have and always will.
Explanation #2: I look like the local dog walker. They think Albert is their lab. Betty and Byron are cocker spaniels.