'We need a local column," my editor said. "Get out there and find out what's happening."
Good heavens. Why me?
The woods are full of people more in touch than I. I don't like chocolate truffles, for instance; I flunk wine tastings, and feel silly in a warm-up suit.
"We want you out there, meeting the people, catching the essence," he said. "We want a column on the Marin scene!"
What on earth does he mean?
If there's a Marin scene, where is it?
- Does it start at the rainbow tunnel, which promises untold delights - and goes downhill to the Marin City flea market, the Richardson Bay mudflats and McDonald's?
- Or is he thinking of Sausalito, where Japanese tourists outnumber the natives, and the waterfront stands triumphant above the tide of the new shingled buildings?
- Maybe it's in Belvedere, where the rich fight for a toehold, and old-timers trade stories about the days of "Pop" Mantegani, Maypole festivals on the green and homes that sold for under $20,000.
- Perhaps it's Perry's, where singles mingle in fake yachting clothes, Perrier drinkers keep pace with white winos, and ordinary folks stop in for hamburgers.
- It's unlikely the Civic Center is where it's at - now that women have been wiped from the Board of Supervisors and five men rule the roost.
Come on Boss, give me a hint.
- It could be in Sutton Manor, where Cyra McFadden gave birth to Harvey and Kate, and where Marin, thanks to "The Serial," became the cradle of hip.
- Maybe it's at Hamilton Field, where Presidential planes once landed, huge hangars stand empty, and grass now grows tall on the runways, waiting for the future.
- Some would say it's at O'Rourke's Bench on Mount Tam, where nature lovers can contemplate the world in a clean sweep from Richmond to San Francisco, and on a clear day you can see San Mateo.
- Perhaps it's on Highway 101 in the morning commute, when hundreds of not-so-new cars inch their way southward, flipping their dials from Frank Dill to Bill Moen to Chris Brecher, all neighbors in suburbia.
I wish he'd tell me if I'm getting close.
- Maybe he means Petrini's, where George Lucas is known to shop, and where women in $80 blouses and men in Italian-cut jackets wait two deep to get meat from Marvin, Rick and Val.
- Maybe I'll find it on the Kentfield bikepath at 6 a.m., where the likes of Paul Hohe, Mike Dufficy and the Geislers (Bill and Barbie) pound through the morning darkness, and where Barbara Boxer used to jog in pink curlers, husband Stewart several paces behind with the dog, perfect behavior for a prince consort.
- Maybe it's the Meadow Club, where Marin's Four Hundred play golf, linger for lunch, give wedding parties for their daughters and hold an occasional dance, complete with tunes from the '40s.
Pinning down the Marin scene won't be easy.
- Maybe I'll have to look farther afield - to a West Marin intersection where Elizabeth Terwilliger rides by on her bike, and black-and-white cows chew happily in the fields, mindless of cities a stone's throw over the hill.
- Or out at Kule Loklo, the reconstructed Miwok village at Point Reyes, where sweat houses and rush-covered shelters stir memories of our forgotten ancestors on this land.
- Or along the meandering rural roads that invariably turn up treasures - the cheese factory, next to nowhere at the Point Reyes-Petaluma intersection, or Lucasfilms' Bulltail Ranch, rising like an improbable screen set eight miles from civilization in the folds of Lucas Valley.
It's probably none of the above.
Marin is doubtless its people - a mix beyond comprehending, a bunch that defies definition. How can you pin down Marin people, when half of them indulge in jogging, eating and upward mobility with the same zeal that others enjoy square dancing, Great Books and volunteer work at the Civic Center?
You can see I need help.
Do you know where it's at? Can you tell me what's going on?
Then call me. The boss is really getting antsy.