We were on our way back from Death Valley where the only thing on the side of the road is an occasional purple flower, a bit of brush, a lone cactus or two… My husband suggested that we take a detour to Lone Pine.
“Why?” I asked him.
“Because I went there once,” he said “and it was sort of quaint and charming. And you’d like it?”
“Really?” I made a face. I have a skinny tolerance for western mountain towns.
“And,” he added, “I bet they have a restaurant there. And you know you get cranky when you haven’t eaten.”
He had me there. So I instantly googled best diner in Lone Pine and came up with what sounded like a somewhat charming diner called Alabama Hills Café and Bakery.
Up the mountain we went, into the town that was sort of quaint and charming. But we couldn’t find the restaurant and then he made a random right turn in an effort to turn around and there we were right in front of it. And it was sort of adorable except the clock in the door said 1:58 and there was a sign on the door that said that they closed at two.
I was truly astonished when they let us in. “Why not?” he said. “I’m here and so are you.”