I’d paused briefly at the agricultural checkpoint as I’d entered California from Oregon State. Shouted "No fruit or vegetables" and quickly waved on by an official who’d crafted disinterest into a performing art. Stopped a few miles down the road. Small Mexican shop. A few holas and gracias. Then on to Crescent City, in search of a better State road map than the one I’d got.
Earlier I’d stopped for breakfast in Brookings, six or so miles north of the Californian border. Hearty breakfast, basking in the warmth by the window of a small cafe. Joined on an adjacent table by a couple of bikers. They were from down south, retired now after decades as Californian State Highway Patrol officers. "CHIPS" I thought.
