Small Town
I took a trip to Auburn to escape San Francisco for the weekend. For a place that prides itself on $20 burritos, they don’t have much to do for fun. I have kids. Three of them. There are parks and museums, sure, but if you’ve ever taken even just one child to a museum, you’d wonder how I have so much hair on my head.
Auburn was beautiful. We saw the town first from the long road they called a highway. A beautiful iron (or was it steel? I’m a city slicker now, man, I don’t know) bridge standing over the street as we exited the ramp into town.
We rolled down our windows to take in the fresh air. Lush evergreen trees towered over beautiful stone-laid buildings. As we drove deeper into town, we noticed the leaves began to change, waking us up to the seasonal shifts we missed while living in a city that remains the same.
Our first stop in any town is their Central Park. This place didn’t have one, but it didn’t need it. The map of the area was littered with green blotches and tree symbols. So we picked one as a stopover before heading to the town center.
The smell of wood-burning fireplaces, grilled food, and pine engulfed me as we followed our kids up the broad sidewalk toward the bike shop, our second favorite place to visit in any new town.
The shop’s always the best place to go to get the lay of the land. MTBers know where all the good trails are, as well as how far they are from town. We learn about the seasons, what paths are kid-safe, how much the burritos cost, and the important things.
We needed a bathroom break, which I hadn’t planned for on this last-minute trip. I didn’t know if the stores required us to pay for items before allowing us to enter. If we had to turn into a shady ally using a key with a questionable dangly bit hanging from its ring. If they had bathrooms at all.
Luckily, we didn’t have to decide. As quickly as one of our kids brought up bathroom needs, another was walking into a store. An art gallery.
It was a corner unit boasting large windows spanning two of the four walls. The room was deep, sectioned off by a curtain in the middle. Western-inspired paintings hung on available wall space. Portraits lay propped up at the base of the walls, separated by tables covered with art supplies and unfinished work.
A man sat off to the side in a lone empty chair. His gray-streaked beard nearly touched the collar of his tee shirt. He introduced himself as The Time Traveler, to my kid's amusement. I could tell he didn’t take himself seriously, so I asked how he got that name. It was apparent, though. He looked like someone dropped from the past. He wore a brown cowboy hat with boots to match. His jeans were loose-fitting, and his jacket was a worn leather that looked like something out of a spaghetti western.
“It’s just something people call me.” He said.
He led my wife and kids to the bathroom and waited out front with me.
We talked for another 30 minutes, my kids long losing interest and leading my wife outside. I don’t recall much. Really, only his first line to me. Even now, the memory feels so distant…
