Missed Photo Ops

There are just days when you wish you'd had the foresight to slip your camera in your purse before walking out that door. Today was one of them. Two things caught my eye today on the way to the pet supply store. The first was a little something Lambchop #1 pointed out. While stopped at a red light, she looked to her left and noticed, in a service-station-turned-personal-junkyard, two white goats standing on an old heap of a car. This was just at the entrance of a village we pass through several times a week, and we had never seen them before. It struck me that they were possibly used as Junkyard Goats to protect the precious crap held within the gates. Odd, to say the least.

The second thing I saw needs a little bit of pre-explanation. The next few paragraphs are not for the squeamish, so click away if you don't like a bit of scandal. Those of you still here with me, of course, are the curious types, so I won't make you wait any longer.

San Diego, CA, the city of my teenage years, whose quirks are indelibly etched in my memory, has a neighbor called El Cajon (which can translate as "The Drawer," "The Casket," or more logically, "Box Canyon" for those of you interested in strange Spanish city names). This city has a stretch of road that, although once a family area where a highschool friend spent a portion of his childhood, is now (or at least was while I was in highschool) a bastion of sin. Among the variety of drugs to be had, there might also be purchased (for the right price) an assortment of "favors" or "services" reminiscent of Bill Clinton's encounter with a chubby intern and a quite possibly chubby cigar. This is El Cajon Blvd. We joked about it as teenagers. Most American cities have their own version of this road. France, though, is somewhat different.

Of course, near the train stations in the large cities, there are the Sex Shops (written just like that), most likely targeting foreign tourists with that name. And, there are often prostitutes to be found nearby, but a little French oddity lies miles away from large cities on roads leading into quiet towns filled with families with children and little puppy dogs. Appearing stranded on the edge of town, a lone woman (perhaps to be found with a friend), spends her day on the side of the road. To the untrained eye, she could be awaiting assistance for her broken-down car. But, the knowing observer realizes she awaits a companion. Not one to fill her days and nights with love and happiness, but, rather, one to fill her pockets with cash after moments of lust. Such a place is mere miles away from the goats we mentioned earlier, near a town which serves as a stop-off for passing truckers. I've never actually seen any of these women busy at work. You only see them standing there, chatting with their friend, or if they are alone, reading a magazine. But, today must have been a special day, because I actually witnessed a client or John, if you will, stopped on the side of the road preparing for... well, I think we can stop there. In fact, I'm not sure why I would have wanted the camera for that. I guess it's just a portion of French culture that most people are unaware of, thus giving me the desire to snap a little photo to share with all of you. But, maybe we're all better off without it. You can surely imagine... nah, let's not go there.

Instead, just do me this one favor: Mamas don't let your babies grow up to be French truckers. Let 'em be doctors and lawyers and such.