I’m writing while kneeling on the sidewalk at a gas station parking lot in the town of Nipomo. Generally, I like to write in cozy cafes, in my bed, at a desk with a view.
But this is one of the beauties of travel. You get used to having less, and become grateful for the bare minimum you really need to survive. Food. Water. Gas. A few moments of freedom from a vibrating CM 400 seat, and a place to sit with the laptop…
Guillermo has gone off to the Nipomo post office to see if we can track down a farm for which we have only the PO Box number. Ironic, isn’t it - that we have a handheld GPS and palm pilot listing all LocalHarvest’s farms at our disposal, and yet we’re asking the postman where the farmer is.
As of noon Monday, we, the road warriors for the local food gospel, have tasted just one green bean from one farm. This is not what Guillermo was expecting.
Rather, he’s been having vivid daydreams about the bountiful gifts of fruit and cheese and nuts he will be receiving along the route. (For more on this, see the posting, Funny Things)
But alas, in fact, we’ve been remiss. There was me, nearly choking on imported melons during my pre-trip dinner. And, there were both of us, hemming and hawing, finally having to admit to Gary that the figs we’d been offering him were not, as he has excitedly hoped, from a local farm. Nope, we picked ‘em up at Whole Foods on our way down to Big Sur. Figs, to go with the Spanish cheese and Chilean wine Guillermo’s friend brought out from New York City. It’s not easy to eat local food in America.