Tacos with Simone

Well I've made it out of Beaver Creek and I haven't seen a cornfield since I passed over the Wyoming-Nebraska border, but as I drive through the streets of San Bernardino I feel slightly apprehensive about my most recent stop on this strange odyssey of mine. The entire city feels like its sagging beneath the dry California heat and I see foreclosure signs on almost every other building. I slow down as I see a small taqueria next to an empty bus stop and decide that chile rellenos and maybe a shot of tequila are the only cure for my current uneasiness. I turn into the lot and cut the ignition just as a Greyhound pulls up to the neighboring station.
I walk into the taqueria and am immediately hit with the smell of carnitas and jalapeños. I breath in the spices and take my customary seat at the counter and glance briefly over the menu when I hear the bells ring on the flimsy screen door. I turn and see an elegant woman who looks as out of place in this Mexican restaurant in San Bernardino as I would if I were driving my pick-up through the streets of Tokyo. Despite her exotic appearance, she makes her way through the cramped restaurant with an easy confidence and takes a seat beside me with a nod and a smile.
She looks at the menu carefully and then turns to me and asks in heavily accented English if I have ever eaten here before and if so what would I recommend.
"This is actually my first time in San Bernardino" I admit, "but based on the smell I would guess that they have some dangerously good empanadas," I add with a smile.
"Thank you," she says with another nod, "so are you visiting or passing through?"
"Passing through," I explain, "but I guess I'm only really passing through anywhere right now."
"Ah," she says with a smile, "I have found a fellow traveler."
I'm not sure what it is about this woman, but her unassuming self-assuredness pulls me in and I find myself asking her about her journey from Paris to New York and across America decades ago and in turn sharing my own frenzied journey across the country. She is nearly as old as I am, but she exudes a youthful openness and engagement that I can only aspire to.
I finish the last bites of my meal and am surprised by how much time has passed when I look up at the clock mounted above an impressive array of tequila bottles. I smile sadly as I pay my check and part ways with this enigmatic Parisian. The heat hits me as I step outside and I return to the rather melancholy reality of San Bernardino to resume my roaming of the left coast.