That afternoon, as the sun began to descend over the colorful mélange of San Francisco hills, we took our seats in the garden, a backyard with strange looking flora, life surrounding everything.
Our hosts looked at us with a hint of friendly suspicion. How could you blame them? We were intruders, strangers, locusts looking for answers.
But… we did sit quietly. Mostly because we didn’t know what to say.
We had traveled thousands of miles, thrown into a journey that was one-part contest, one-part investigation, and one-part discovery.
And now we were here, sitting in the backyard of an old, white-haired man named Peter Berg, trying in vein to explain ourselves.
At last, the old man spoke:
“I wanna know two things,” he said, “One is why Peter Coyote? And why me?”