The Border Ate My Produce

September 2nd

We wake up under a blanket of frost in the parking lot. A sign identifies the area/site/region/whatever as Beckom. Dreams of Le Groupe, and I wake up with a sore hip.

We pile into Sharky for another long day; luckily, both Tisi and I like driving. There's some nattering about us having taken the wrong turn.
Why were you listening to my directions? I was drunk.
You had the map. And said you knew where we were going.
So?

We stop in the next town to fill up. We're about to enter the Fruitfly Zone and are loathe to jettison our apple supply. Tisi has 5, I have 4, and Cal chokes back 1. Sure, chucking them out would have neatly avoided apple-induced stomach aches, but where's the challenge in that?

As we're set to head off, the passenger door refuses to close. Pull over in front of a motorcycle dealership, tools out, the guys have the inside panel of the door dismantled and repaired, while the girls practice handstands. It's now better than before as the previously not-so-functional window is now fully operational.

***

Through Griffith, the former Drug Capital of Australia.
Tisi: "I love cities with palm tree lined entrances that don't warrant them."

That's right, folk: don't let the palms fool you -- Griffith is not Beverly Hills.

***

Our garlic is confiscated at the South Australia border. We had it hanging from the roof in the back, my contribution to the nesting. The guard is very nice about it, and informs us that our celery is not contraband, but only after we've rabidly munched down a fair portion of it, clearly learning nothing from the morning's apple incident.

I love celery. We bought an impressive stalk and have vowed to consume it while it's fresh. The favorite flavoring options are a light dusting of salt & pepper or spread with a mixture of peanut butter and sweet chili sauce.

I like the leaves, Tisi doesn't; aren't we just a match made in heaven?