When you start looking for interpretive signage, it’s everywhere. Even in the bathroom. Maybe especially in the bathroom.
All we wanted, really, was lunch. Right on the line between Arizona and California, not quite a “sweet spot” (in fact, the quite dishevelled community of Quartzite, Arizona). The Times 3 restaurant beckoned from the highway; we stopped. We got out. We wondered at the sulphurous air. We looked it up: Quartzite is America’s rock capital. Rockhounds flock here in droves. It’s the point of Quartzite, its reason for being.
We sat with menus. My husband got up and came back, saying to me, “You gotta go to the bathroom.”
Just between the men’s and the women’s rooms, a whole wall of old photos, lovingly annotated. Let it be known: I love this stuff. I love the care that’s taken, the very idea “we know this place”. We care about this place and the stories it holds.
Sure, most of it was a straight-up listing of names and dates. But the fact that it’s there is what impressed me most.
We finished our meal and went up to the counter to pay. One last treat: at the cash machine, trapped under the weight of glass, a menu. The restaurant remembers itself. I left, delighted.