We drove over to Palestine to eat some local BBQ at a down-home Texas place called the Pint and Draft House. The fried green tomatoes, I tell you, did not disappoint. A distinctive smokehouse aroma wafted by now and again and a black cat selectively chose who’s patio table she’d curl up under next. And the people. The people around here are so friendly and no one, I mean NO ONE, resorts to the SoCal go-to of “have a nice day.” Unless they throw “y’all” onto the end of it that is.
That in itself is just nice.
When the lady at the coffeehouse just across the road identified me as a Californian she asked with sincere concern if countless homeless had yet been bussed in to my neighborhood back home. “Uh, nooooo,” I replied. Her perception of life in California raised some concern for my wellbeing there. I wandered off to the antique shop next door thinking she was probably just being thoughtful, right? Well maybe. I suppose. No one ever asked me that before but then I’d never been to Palestine.