If the Shoe Fits, Don’t Forget to Return ‘Em

Tiburon is an enchanted place, snugged in one of the sheltering coves of San Francisco Bay. It is set in fog, hills and a view of a city full of towers across the bay.

People who live there have a magic edge, like people who live in Portofino or Carmel. I cannot imagine them standing in line at a supermarket to buy cat food from a bored checker. That’s for ordinary mortals.

I had dinner the other evening with some delightful friends who live in Tiburon, and it reminded me that one of my few experiences in Tiburon proves that its mystical air is a little too heady for me.

I was working in politics, and my chores were all of the media arrangements for Cabinet secretaries and undersecretaries whenever they ventured over the Rockies. I was staying at the St. Francis working with one of the world’s charming men, Rogers C. B. Morton, who was then secretary of the Interior, a 6-foot, 6-inch giant of a man with blue eyes the color of the water around Treasure Island on a day in full summer.

The secretary had some meetings where my busy cluckings were not required, and a friend of a friend asked me if I would like to go in his boat across to Tiburon for Ramos fizzes. Boats, politics and the theater are the three things in my life for which everything else is joyfully tossed over the side so, of course, I said yes.

We got to the slip and I saw a blessed wooden lapstrake-hulled boat, beamy enough to be comfortable and slender enough not to wallow in the unpredictable waters of the Golden Gate.

I also saw that my host magnificently maintained its teak decks, which require the loving care of Alencon lace. Water spots the wood. A butterfly stamping his feet can scratch it. I have known men who would scuttle their entire families to preserve their teak decks.

When we reached the dock, I pointed weakly at my 4-inch heeled shoes and he said, “Don’t worry. I have lots of tennis shoes and deck shoes aboard.”

I happily tossed my shoes aboard and followed them. He did, indeed, have a pair of shoes to fit me, salt-rimed and having a large hole in one toe.

He let me take the wheel about half way over and I cooed with delight. We tied up at Tiburon, went ashore and had the fizzes and eggs Benedict and then went back across the Bay. It was getting on into the afternoon, so I asked him to take me back to the St. Francis. He did and I thanked him for a wonderful day.

You know what happened. As I walked into the dignified lobby, I realized that I still had on the aged tennies. There was no way to get to the man on whose boat my city shoes were. He had told me that he was going to cruise the Bay for the next few hours.

I had to catch an airplane for Los Angeles so I went to my room and packed and called for the bellman and the limo driver. I was always trundled to and from San Francisco Airport by the limo, not because of my wit and charm but because I always put my charges in the St. Francis.

I realized that the only thing to do was to assume my Mrs. Douglas Kingsley Thompson of La Habra Heights persona, stand up straight and wear my tennis shoes.

I walked across the lobby, checked out and went to find the secretary who was staying over for more meetings. I found him and he said, “Zan, honey, what are you wearing on your feet?”

I said, “Well, Rogers, I went out on this man’s boat and I took off my. . . .” I stopped. There was absolutely nowhere to go with that sentence, especially since the secretary was flanked by some important folk who would not have understood the explanation. Rogers would have because he was a boatman with a boat on the eastern shore of Maryland where he lived.

He laughed and wished me luck and I slogged through the San Francisco Airport, did the interminable process in reverse at the Los Angeles Airport, trudged to my car in the airport security lot and finally made it home where all I had to face was my husband who said, “Love your shoes, babe. Do you always wear them with that suit?”

Fortunately he was a boatman too and knew I would give up home, mother and the flag for a boat ride. And that is why I have never been back to Tiburon, not even if the Bay were filled with Ramos fizzes. I wish my friends continued happiness there and my advice to them is: “Keep your shoes on.”