Eggs and Pears at the Hotel California

I still haven’t quite left this place yet.  I am only anxious in the sense that the weather is growing cooler and I’d like to be safe behind my wall-o-eucalyptus before the first storms of the season hit.  Plus there’s a strange endless routine of boat cleaning and painting that I have fallen into as I try to help my friends ready their sailboat for sale. There’s an anticipatory tension in the air that I can’t quite shake.

There’s also been smoke in the air.  The controlled burns are very dramatic, and pretty in an awful way.


We are surrounded by pear orchards.  In the evening I walk Austin through the rows of trees and there is a strange musty smell that I do not associate with dirt, rotting fruit, or grass.  Can’t identify it.  And I’ve been told that there are semi-wild dogs in the orchard who are deliberately not fed so that they catch the rats.  Austin looks a little too much like a white rabbit so I’m always on guard.

The business we are docked at does a vigorous wedding business on the weekends.  The building is all white and gold and ornament with incessant hot and cold running Mozart.  It puts one in the mood to get married.  Austin still hasn’t said yes.


Yesterday we scored a dozen eggs from a neighbor who keeps chickens.  The little brown eggs were precious both because I could see and hear the chickens who laid them and that I walked a mile down the road to retrieve them and never set foot in a store.  They feel like a treasure.

 

 

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