I am halfway through my journey in California and I have 48 hours to spend in the corner suite at the Alamo Motel. I will use the aquamarine tin jug to cook over a low heat the strawberries I picked in the morning at the farm (The Farmstead); I will string a clothesline between two branches of the fruit tree in my back patio and hang my laundry out in the sun; I will play an LP disk quietly in the dining room; I will organize my travel notes and turn on the colorful lights in the garden before the night falls. Tomorrow is Monday. All bakeries in town will be closed, there will be no yoga classes at the Gentlemen's Club, the sun will not shine on the vineyards of Santa Inez Valley, but Los Alamos, with its single main road and this perfect motel, is not just a place of transit. Password: Remember the Alamo Hotel.
Words Paola Corini. Translation Margherita Di Giovannantonio.