We just arrived in Yuma, Arizona's westenmost city, which is about as close to Mexico you can get without being in Mexico. And in spite of the fact that it is desert from one end to the other, it is a major citrus growing area. The green trees are a welcome relief after so much sandy dirt. And with the mountains in the background, it is quite an impressive view from our front window.
They tell you not to stop along the road and sample the oranges, but I have never picked an orange from a tree, so I am considering stopping and asking someone in charge if I can pay him or her for two oranges that I pick myself.
Later: Okay, John stole an orange. He is my hero my Galahad my thief. The orange sat on our counter over night and as soon as I got up I peeled and ate the forbidden fruit. It tasted like sawdust. Dry and mealy, no flavor at all. That’s how God punishes temptresses. I’ll bet that apple that Adam picked tasted just about as good.
Yuma, like so many other western towns, has no real town center. We visited Old Yuma the other night expecting little shops, quaint sights and great restaurants, but found instead a deserted two-block stretch of souvenir stores and a couple of theaters that seemed to be active, but we were too late for a show.
The rest of the city is strip malls, and after several attempts to find a real town center with a great steak or otherwise Western meal, we settled for Olive Garden and had a wonderful martini and meal. Quel surprise. We’re having the leftovers tonight.
Live and learn.
Betty
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