Dad's here for the next two weeks. He accuses his children of forcing him to go on death marches every time he visits. (Hey, he saw the bus route on the map and suggested we walk instead of just waiting for one. It's not my fault we walked all the way from the Ferry Building to the Caltrain station--and really, is 3 miles a true 'death march'?)
In a thoughtful effort to give him something to complain about, we met at the Palo Alto station tonight. See, Dad is very independent and capable. He knows every public transport method of getting from the airport to our house. He caught an express train from San Jose knowing it would stop in Palo Alto and not Menlo Park (the station 1 block from our house). So, I took the train one stop beyond Menlo in order to meet him. (Jrex was in a meeting with his advisor and a collaborator, so wasn't available to pick us up.)
Now, had I any intelligence in my head at all, I'd have suggested we find a nice comfy bench and wait for the next local train to take us 3 minutes up the track. I've biked the route many times and it only takes 8 minutes, so I figured it would be a 20 minute walk. When we finally dragged his heavy suitcase up the steps to the apartment, a mere 45 minutes had passed.
. . . oops.
And of course, then we had to take Muttolah out for her evening restitutional.
Dad wants to complain about being 73 and being tortured by his children. Oh, the pain! Oh, my aching feet! Why do you do this to me? What have I ever done to deserve this? Don't believe the hype: on Saturday, he was up in Seattle with my brother and went for a 10 mile sea kayaking adventure. He's in great shape.
Let's see what other fun I can arrange for him.