My home town. Been gone a while, but smaller than I remember…
"Gaddafi is dead" he announced, clutching a small battery operated radio. He’d introduced himself the previous evening as "SuperDave". Heading south towards Santa Barbara for the winter with dog Jasper. Explaining his faithful, if somewhat lethargic, friend preferred a steady seventy degrees. He was getting old.
The pair had been migrating south each winter for nine years. Thirty or so miles each day. Where did they normally stop each night, I enquired, knowing campgrounds were rarely that close together, and some were now closed.
Campgrounds aside, he explained, you could pitch on land, or behind empty buildings, provided there were no signs to preclude it – "Posted" or "No Trespassing". Never inside dwellings or structures. And not near schools.
"Double or single shot?" he’d snapped. The woman hadn’t heard him, or at least had realised he was addressing her. He barked his question once more. She paused, then replied "Single". Turning away to face her partner, she’d rolled her eyes in disgust. Her own parting shot as she left a particularly enthusiastic "Do have a wonderful day".
Small coffee shop in Myers Flat, a few miles south of the campground I’d stopped at the previous night. I’d wandered in a little earlier, the service cordial rather than caustic. My eyes drawn to the various signs on the walls. "No Sniveling". "And your whining opinion would be?" "Sarcasm. One of the free services I offer". He wasn’t joking.