March 21
The delights of Barstow were hiding this particular late afternoon, so we decided to take a ride out of town to Calico. Calico is a Californian ghost town brought back from the dead. Unlike a number of other mining towns which were founded around gold, Calico built itself around silver which, was unfortunate because although the two metals are often mentioned in one breath, there is a rather large spread between the two hence, a kilo of silver today is about 400 Euros whereas the same in gold is about 30,000 Euros. This disparity started around the turn of the last century and when the silver price plummeted, that was it for Calico. However, someone saved it from dereliction and now it is a county park with various museums and both original and new buildings in the 1850's style. When we arrived, the was a gunfighter show going on in the corral which was pretty impressive. I don't know if it was a trick or not but the guy really did seem to be able to shoot the quarters he threw in the air.
We walked up the hill to look at the various attractions which followed the norm, fast food and gift shops. Because we were late arrivals, we didn't have to pay but the $6 entrance fee seemed reasonable enough. There was a large RV park attached and many families seemed to be set there for a few days. We drank a couple of cokes on the verandah (I'm sure they're not called that in Cowpokese) in rocking chairs and headed back to the bikes. People are fascinated by Harley's and there was a family with a couple of 4 or 5 year old children looking at the bikes. The Dad asked if he could take a photo of the kids on my Softail which of course we obliged. I think the kids had become a bit carried away by the wild-west environment and seemed to think H and I were a couple of drifters moseying through, making our way with a bit of ranch work here and there. I'm sure, once out of earshot, the father explained that we were, in fact, just a couple of middle-age fantasists.
Having headed back to Barstow, we started to look for a restaurant. Nearly every one we went into, despite the exterior look was some sort of fast food place. Even the "normal" looking ones required you to go to a counter to get your food and then return to the table. Our guess was that waiting staff had become an expensive luxury. Most places, for some reason, were also dry. Having come out of yet another disappointing establishment I said to H that we should perhaps cut our losses and just pick one. H doesn't give up easily. Strangely, or so I thought, he accosted two nice looking old dears in a car park and asked if they knew where we could find a "normal" restaurant. "Why yes honey", said one. "Just across the road and one block up behind Main Street, a Italian run by a very nice gentleman. By the way, I do just love your accent!" "What's more my dear", enthused her companion, "they do some lovely wines!" Have to hand it to H, he comes through with the goods when it matters.
Leaving H's new girlfriends to chatter excitedly about "That nice young man", two minutes later saw us pulling up outside DiNapoli's Italian Eatery. Anywhere else, you might just walk on by but for Barstow, this was haute cuisine (or whatever the Italian equivalent is) so we grabbed a piece. Two loaded pizzas and one bottle of Valpolicella later, we were fed and watered for $30. Great food, good price.
We headed back around 10:30pm and as we couldn't find any bar for a nightcap, apart perhaps at one of the many bonfires burning by the side of the rail tracks, we called it a day. As I lay awake, listening to the haunting sound of locomotive whistles, I realised Barstow probably hadn't changed much in a hundred years. Still just somewhere on the way to somewhere else.
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