In one town, we drive through a neighborhood, flat, full of modest but well-kept homes. The lawns are neat, mainly green, with colorful plants in pots and flowers edging walkways. Security doors and windows with metalwork are surprising; there are people grilling out front in a couple yards. It is late Sunday morning and they are well-dressed.
In a few yards, I notice mature trees with bright oranges dangling from their branches. Still, after all this time, I’m astounded by California’s bounty: citrus fruit is common. Years ago, in Sicily, I watched children play soccer with dozens of fallen oranges while I waited for a pizza – tuna and olive, salty and so delicious – and I imagine that could happen here too, the fruit bursting upon the foot that kicks it just right, toes drenched in juice.
And then we’re finished with the town and move along to the very straight highway again. It would be easy to believe there is nothing here yet surely there are crops on their way, plans unfolding. Is there ever really nothing? I think of the flattest, driest land I’ve seen, when I’ve driven through desert or desolation. Perhaps there is something there. I can’t see it all.
Through the bug-splattzred windshield, I wonder at the possibility. I wonder at the stories. But we’re moving quickly, so quickly, and are on to the next already. The curving road rises up before us. We drive.
The Wandering Introvert 