The California smoking laws, which ban smoking in enclosed public areas, were met with approval almost universally by all Californians. I was there at a bar the first night the law went into practice. Every smoker had to go outside. It wasn't so bad, they realized. The clean bars and the camaraderie of smokers in the alleyways was rather enjoyable. They grunted that first night, but it was half-hearted. By the next day it seemed the conversation was over.

That a foreigner may find such a law uncomfortable is understandable, but this English teacher was abusive, and so Jane started voicing her disgust publicly, so they could hear her. She said, it's one thing to disagree with the culture of a place, but you don't go to another country and ridicule the people there because it is not identical to what you know."

"Bloody hell!" the woman said.
"Barmy!" the man said.

I told Jane that I liked when foreigners came to our national parks. Jane has always found it odd that the California parks are actually filled with more outsiders than Californians. I see America's natural treasures not only as American, but belonging in a sense to all people; that protected spaces are a part of global culture.

Although Jane would agree with me on this point, she didn't hear it from me this night, because I told her about how English tourists ruined the coasts of Southern Spain. How they ruin and terrorized everywhere they go with their lousy attitudes and misery and cheap construction and bad food and big signs.

At this point, the English couple slapped their money on the table and rushed out the door. They didn't tip. The waitresses cheered. I tacked an extra tip in my small bill, and then we left.

The next morning we were on our way to Kings Canyon.

A cherry vendor who calls himself 'Pineapple' sells local fruits in California's Central Valley on the road to King's Canyon.

The road to Kings Canyon from the north is covered with rolling plains and a generous supply of fruit stands, many of which offer free samples. But the real pleasure is once you've driven above the plains, after the southern California vegetation disappears and a crisp breeze fills the air. After you've risen to 8,000 feet and then descended again and three hours later you're at the bottom of a giant canyon. Kings Canyon. Without all the attractions of a place like Yosemite, Kings Canyon seems devoid of one thing in particular. Tourists.