Ah, the Highway 9 detour, adding an hour to an already hourlong commute about twice a year. A wreck earlier this morning on the 17 stopped traffic in both directions because, after all, you know, it was raining. So, it's a morning of drizzly, hairpin turns for me.
We're taking the windy road through Felton and Boulder Creek, passing hut tubs covered with fallen leaves, passing the houses that look like they were built in the seventies by stoned buskers, passing the redwoods that have stood for centuries.
And I'm sitting by a guy who gave me the stink-eye because I dared to sit where he'd placed his luggage. A line of people behind me, some who may end up standing for hours, and he's feeling territorial. I offer to help him move his bag, but he chooses to hold the case on his leg, seething.