I really enjoy exploring the area we’ve moved to.  For me, it’s important to experience the new culture, taste new food and meet interesting people.  It’s the only way you can truly integrate into a new country or area.  And, given I like people, food and history, it’s a no-brainer to go exploring.

On one of my recent adventures, a very good friend of mine persuaded me to go have lunch at a local diner.  Not just any diner, but a traditional American diner.  I love diners, so again, easy choice.

As we arrived at this particular diner, I was amazed how strangely it was situated.  It was sort of stuck in a blind spot in an intersection.  I wasn’t too sure how to enter the car park, without getting pulled over for some strange traffic violation.  The entrance was in the intersection, but not a road – you had to cross the footpath, which I’m sure the local sheriff would have strong feelings about.

Anyway, I floored the accelerator and “jumped” over the sidewalk, in my not-so-pimper-up El Camino, and hit the brakes in front of what looked like a renovated train wagon.  Well, it was a small little place, which from the outside looked pretty small.

On the inside, it was pretty small.  Going by American eating places, where the average is around 150 seats, this one probably had 40 seats.

It was like walking into a time warp.  The carpet was from the early 60s, wall paper probably changed in the late 60s due to a small fire and all the decorations had gradually increased, but the last piece was added some time around 1971.

But, don’t judge a book by its covers, but something told me that I didn’t want to see the kitchen, or meet the chef.

We were greeted but and older version of Shelley Duvall, who looked like she had been on crystal meth for the past decade.  But, despite this assumed addiction, she was extremely friendly and were a great waitress … I wonder if she was looking for other services and methods of supporting her addiction.

Jokes aside, she was a lovely lady.  I particularly enjoyed looking at her hat, a pink creation with the letters “Yummy Time” written on it.

We had some lovely food, traditional American burger with fries.  I was slightly worried about ordering the soup, in case it had a floating tooth, or some other body part, and I still had to eat dinner later.

Another interesting fact, when we entered the diner.  I had brought my son, and so had my friend, so we were four new customers – doubling the amount of people in the joint, and also dropping the average age to below 60 (only just below 60).

A few elderly visitors were complaining about some strange skin rash, nursing home services and how some of their friends had passed on.

Suddenly a friendly lady passed our table, and smiled.  I was honestly afraid that her teeth would pop out, but they stayed in.  She was delighted to see kids in the diner and asked if they were brothers.

We had to kindly tell her that we were not a couple, and that our wives were at home, to which she replied “oh no, sorry to be misunderstood.  I have no problems with those people.  They can be very friendly too … I think”.

She refused to shake our hands, as she had some strange skin rash, so we just nodded and wished her a good weekend.

We had a lovely lunch at this little time capsule.  I know where Jimmy Hoffa is buried, and I’ve learned how to curb jump in an El Camino.