waiting

Third Street trams and hipsters trundle by your faithful reporter, Eugenia, coming to you live from the foreign correspondence desk in Dogpatch, San Francisco.  We remain in our bunker due to transportation difficulties out in the field, but we are assured that our convoy will be ready to head north later this afternoon.  We hope to make it to the border by midnight.  We’ve been surviving on Ethiopian food, green apple chicken salad sandwiches on crusty bread, Goan pork vindaloo, and bluefin tuna!  And freshly dressed scallop sushi!  Armed with Rancho Gordo heirloom beans, ivory teff, and red palm oil to detonate and throw at the local militants if they increase their agitation along the central waterfront, we are biding our time during this latest period of unrest at a local watering hole, staring idly at fancy designs in the latte foam.  It’s raining.  We think of Oregon, home, and those we’ve left behind.  A way a lone a last a loved a long the

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