So begins a photographic chronicle of the seasonal influx of migrants into the Lower Rio Grande Valley. This particular conveyance belonged to a rather entertaining pair of snowbirds I observed in the restaurant next door to mine own humble winter quarters.
It being rather uncouth to photograph them as they dined, I will attempt to paint a verbal picture.
The gentleman was classic California nouveau riche, silver hair, narrow frameless specs, earth tones, sleek black socks and loafers, conservative in every other degree. His only condescension to hippiedom was a diamond stud earring. He looked to be about sixty.
His companion was a lithe young Asian woman of exquisite poise and carriage. Immaculately attired in perfect Southwest regalia; from her cowboy boots rose tight jeans to an outrageous turquoise and silver buckle, from there it was up and over a silk blouse to the feather tipped ends of her braids.
As her companion disappeared around the corner to the washroom, the young woman gave a slow measured survey of the room around her, returning her gaze to me just long enough to feel my heart skip a beat.
The old geezers trip to the washroom obviously began to drag on, as the lovely woman sat silhouetted against the sunset and began to fidget.
I shifted my chair, focused on my pizza and drank my beer.
Upon her companions return, the apprentice dragon lady leaped from her chair and fawned all over him as they discussed the bill and which credit card they should use this time. Studiously ignoring their noisy exit, I craned my neck to see which vehicle was next to leave the parking lot. As I guessed, it was the ornately tricked out Hindi camper-mobile, on it’s way to who knows where, but certainly not someplace uncomfortably cold. Most likely the Holiday Inn.
Well, that’s migration a la First World America. Third World is on the next street over.