Wayne and I were getting into the swing of things—we wore tee shirts, shorts and flip flops. The trip was fun, the girls were pretty, and the food was good. Speaking of food, we had picked up some lunch meat, fruit, and cold drinks before we left Kerrville. We didn’t waste any time when we decided to eat. I simply swiveled in the seat, opened the cooler and went to work. Sometimes, we had Mexican Food and sometimes we dined Italian.
For the Mexican meals, I would smear mayo on two slices of bread, plop a slice of sharp cheese on one side and two slices of jalapeno bologna on the other, and lunch was served. For the Italian meals, I used provolone cheese and two slices of salami. We washed it down with bottled water and followed up with a banana for dessert—that little Hitler Dude took our apples—and all the while we didn’t miss a beat “running the blacktop”. When told of our meal plan, Wayne’s wife, Ann, predicted we would both suffer from “terminal constipation.”
As with everything else, there is a learning curve in making these gourmet luncheons. I used a squeeze bottle of mayo and it took a few tries to learn to dispense the proper amount. Wayne took the first sandwich I made as he drove down I-10 in high gear. He clamped down on it and the over-mayoed bologna slipped out onto the center of the steering wheel where all the button controls are exposed. As he tried to drive with one hand and chase that slippery piece of bologna with the other, mayonnaise smeared all over the cruise controls, worked its way into the radio volume control and automatically activated the GPS machine.
We were rapidly accelerating, the radio was blaring, the truck was scattering gravel from the shoulder of the road, and a smooth, sexy-voiced English lady was advising us to take the next exit. The slippery bologna found its way to Wayne’s lap, and then slid down between his bare legs to the soft leather seat.
Wayne pulled onto the shoulder, coasted to a stop and said, “Gee Whiz Mac, why don’t you go a little light on the mayo next time. Gosh Darn, I wish you hadn’t done that.” At least, that’s the gist of what he said. I didn’t know mayonnaise was that slick. I’m going to use it to lubricate my garage door opener. I wonder if it must be Hellman’s, or would Kraft’s work just as well.
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| I could talk about all the sights we saw |
I could talk about all the sights we saw. I could tell you of the magnificent California Coast with the deep blue Pacific breaking among the dark, craggy pieces of volcanic rock. Every vista was more striking than the previous and the beauty of it all was unbelievable. I could tell you about that and maybe someday I will. For now, I want to talk about the important things we saw—the people we met and the work they did. The world they have carved out of this fertile countryside. The laughter we shared and the feelings we have in common—the fact that, underneath the veneer, we’re all the same. We are moved by the same impulses. We march to the same drummer—we laugh and cry for the same reasons—we work for the same goals.
We stopped at a roadside market in Watsonville, a little farming community near the coast. There was every kind of fresh fruit and vegetable, plus all sorts of canned goodies. The bins were sagging with bounty—strawberries, dates, lettuce, bok choy, Brussels sprouts, onions of all description, several varieties of oranges, almonds, walnuts, apples—you name it--all fresh and polished and beautiful. Everything was grown within a few miles of this market and most of it was picked just hours ago.
On shelves above the produce, jarred and canned olives, sauces, fruits, exotic blends of spices, every foodstuff imaginable strained for our attention. I picked a cart and started loading things to take home—garlic stuffed olives, exotic hot sauce, sleeves of Gilroy garlic, Italian sweet peppers.
I heard Wayne in the background—his infectious laughter, his boyish exuberance ---“Yeah, we’re on a kind of bucket list road trip! We came to see this country before we get too old to enjoy it. I’ve known that old man over there since high school and we’re just running the blacktop, seeing what’s over the hill!” The shopkeeper was delighted!
When we pushed our cart to the checkout stand, the shopkeeper rang up our purchases, then threw in a sack of navel oranges, a sack of white onions, and a sack of Brussels sprouts. No charge—he just wished he could “run the blacktop” and see the country with an old friend.
We had already been, earlier that morning, to Castroville, the artichoke capital of the world, and to Gilroy, the garlic capital. We took pictures under the giant artichoke in Castroville, and the whole town of Gilroy smelled like an Italian restaurant.
Wayne pulled over at a little Beach Park near Half Moon Bay— there are many such parks along the coast highway—and we stopped to eat lunch. We could no longer resist the carton of strawberries we bought in Watsonville. We sat on a bench, stared out at the ocean and ate strawberries like they were apples. The fruit was that big and twice as sweet—we also nibbled on rat cheese and candied dates, then finished with fresh clementines—a feast, perfect with the ocean view, bright sunshine, the crisp sea breeze, and an old friend. We were “running the blacktop” as Wayne is fond of saying, but we smelled the roses as we went along.
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