Dip into Idaho
I really wanted to go into Idaho. I mean, I love potatoes, I needed a journal, and we just had to be able to put the sticker on the side of the car. It would have been disrespectful to be so near the border and not pop in.
Apparently I can be surprisingly convincing, because I had my way and off we were to Driggs, Idaho for a journal from Dark Horse Books. Of course, it started raining the instant we returned to the van after showering and perusing the stores. 
Along the way, we pulled over at a turnout near the top of a mountain that offered a stunning view of the valley and hills below. Of course, I hopped out of the car to snap some pictures, only to notice that another car pulled over had California plates. Nothing so unusual there. Californians love to travel, if the number of license plates we saw out-of-state indicates anything. What made me stop short was the Hayward Honda license plate. No way. We were in Wyoming! 
Me being me, I immediately accosted the poor woman to whom the van belonged, and her family and I began chatting. I called Auntie Cindy over, the conversation switched to Mandarin, and the couple eased up considerably. They were nice, sweet, friendly Chinese parents. They had a girl and a boy, who were happily throwing rocks off the side of the mountain. Much to my surprise, I was able to understand the entire conversation in Mandarin, and I was genuinely sad to say goodbye to them. They had driven straight from Pleasanton, where they lived, to Mt. Rushmore in South Dakota, and the Grand Tetons was their second stop, to be followed by Yellowstone.
The Idaho we saw was poor, desolate, and crumbling. The buildings were in need of repairs, as were the cars, and even the few people we spotted. Walking around in Driggs felt eerie, as if I were transported into a different century, a different location, into a deserted ghost town in the southwest. Stores were boarded up, molding and decaying, and few cars lined the streets.
Since I had called ahead and already pumped the woman full of questions regarding her journal selection, I grabbed my purchase and browsed the store. Matthew found some elaborate pop-up books, Auntie some on only children, and me one of Bono's speech on AIDS at a Republican Party Luncheon a few years ago.
I chatted with the cashier, and she admitted that she loved the thunderstorm and lightning raging outside, as it dampened the earth and prevented fires, a major concern in the area apparently.
About a block down, we pulled over for some dinner at a heavenly little cafe specializing in hot chocolate. I indulged in a Peppermint Patty—a hot chocolate with dark chocolate, milk chocolate, bits of peppermint, and lots of whipped cream—although the Nutty Irishman—Irish cream, milk chocolate, almond, caramel, and lots of whipped cream—sounded quite tantalizing as well.
Due to heavy rain, I had to pass on the hula-hooping competition next-door, so the ladies participating hula-hooped in front of the cafe for us. Oh, Idaho.
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