The isolated, lonely landscape gnawed at our psyches and cooked our brains and bodies in 100-plus-degree August heat in our non-air-conditioned Vanagon camper rolling along Highway 50, the Loneliest Road in America. The brown desert and barren ranges of Nevada had replaced the red canyons of Utah two-thirds of the way through the 600 miles my husband and I had driven since early morning when we departed Telluride in Colorado on our way home to San Francisco. The brightly lit cafe was filled with people sitting on vinyl-and-metal kitchen chairs at a dozen wooden-topped tables. The waitress showed us to a table along the side wall near an oval frame holding an antique photograph of an owl. Most of the women in the cafe wore simple print dresses, and the men had on long-sleeve shirts, blue jeans and feed caps - baseball hats sporting the names of farm- or ranching-equipment companies. On the opposite side of the room sat an older, heavier man with a handlebar mustache and overalls and a Boss-of-the-Plains rounded cowboy hat with the front brim turned up. At the table next to us a stylish couple in their 40s speaking French ate with heads down. The door opened again, and in walked a young couple who paused dramatically on the threshold. The waitress brought us a huge slice of coconut cream pie mounded high with whipped cream. #SF #News #49ers
Posted on: Fri, 01 Aug 2014 02:13:20 +0000
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