Matt overheard a funny conversation in the booth today. One older couple was talking to another about a schoolbus
similiar to ours they've recently finished converting. Solid oak interior, bedroom, bathroom, kitchen etc. . . and how
moving between the house and the bus could be rocky at times. . .in terms of remembering to bring everything they need from
the house into the bus for traveling. "So," the other couple asks,"are you going to sell your bus now?" And the couple
who owns the bus replies;"No, we're selling the house!"
I love it. It's sunny and warm. Bags of oranges for $3.00.
We're in Quartzsite, AZ. I like to call it the Ironman contest of vending. If you can make it here, you can make
it anywhere. It's. . .somewhere you have see at least once.
I can't really describe it adequately, because
there's so many little realities all shoved together in one "city" for a month. I think there's more
tarp canopies, tents, RV's and such than real "brick and mortar" houses. There's a mellow buzz in the air,
from all the people. Not like a busy metropolitan city type buzz. More like a. . .county fair meets street market meets Christmas
at the senior center type buzz. Most everybody is on a sort of vacation, and if they're not, nine times out of ten they're
on so many pharmaceuticals they might as well be. That's not a judgement- just an
observation. Most everybody's pleasant and tan, dripping with affordable gaudy jewelry and looking forward
to going to the casino, or Mexico.
The younger crowd is eclectic and considered lucky to be down here by most the
older folks. A mix of hippies, road dogs and young entreupeners- sometimes all three. Mostly swinging between open- minded,
desperate, and ambitious.
There's a fraction of people thirty and under that come out here from San Diego
and LA. They are markedly different from the rest of us dogged homely vendors. Rhinestones, Botox and high heels, baby
(the ladies) and the guys- unusually well fitting jeans, clean t-shirts and an air of studied indifference.
A walk through a neighboring RV park reveals the neighborhood through license plates:
Seskatchewan,
Iowa, Michigan, Wisconsin, British Columbia, Nova Scotia, Washington, Oregon, Oregon, Idaho, New Jersey blah blah blah.
Bob
and I were, ah, salvaging a few new items from a dumpster in Lake Havasu. (OK, it's not like a big dirty dumpster in an
alleyway that you have to crawl in- like on the movies. It's about shoulder heighth, open, textiles only- and surrounded
by lexus's and palm trees) bob grabs a new pair of rollerblades, his size, off the top. And I grab a pair of Italian
leather handmade sandals. We start to walk off and this old guy runs out of the associated thrift store (HOSPICE THRIFT STORE
OF HAVASU) and yells:
"You know the city just passed a new ordinance. Do you know what the fine is for rummaging
through a dumpster?" (Bob and I don't really keep up with ordinances in Lake Havasu. Sorry guy.) "No? It's
two thousand dollars! Now put that stuff back or I'm going to call the police!"
Bob and I smiled and told
him to "Have a nice day". We kept walking.
Doesn't that seem silly?
bliss. . .