The first place I stopped in Weaverville was a little deli just to the right
off the main road. A covered boardwalk ran the length of the block in front
of all the businesses. A woman in shorts took advantage of the shade, 
sitting in a chair in front of the deli. I tethered up to a porch pillar 
with my cable lock and started for the door -- and the woman rushed to 
extinguish her smoke and scoot in ahead of me. She was working there. 
I apologized for interrupting her break, absently watched her walk around 
the counter, and then began to look over the menu.  

I really wanted a sandwich, but I suddenly remembered a sign I'd seen in 
a bathroom earlier on the trip. "Employees must wash hands after sneezing, 
using the restroom or smoking," it said. 

The woman tried to talk to me about all kinds of things. She was short 
and squinted up at me as if at a rare bird in a distant tree. She had 
an appealing gap between her two front teeth, some freckles and a big 
brown mole spot next to her nose. She asked about my trip, and she 
bragged about her cyclist friend in Seattle, whom she chatted with on 
the Internet. "He said you meet people from all walks of life," she said, 
true wonderment in her voice.

In return for her naive but genuine questions I gave one-sentence
answers; in response to the full deli menu I ordered only a large citrus
soda. I couldn't get beyond the smoking. My mind sometimes gets 
stuck like that. Hypoglycemic irritability, maybe. 

I took my soda outside and sat down in one of the chairs. The woman did 
not return to finish her smoke. 

None of what happened really sank in for me until much later, when, 
climbing Rattlesnake Road, I thought about the Deli again. I finally
realized then that the woman was lonely, or at least bored, and that 
I must have been a terrible disappointment. I was ashamed. All I could
think about was the damn smoking -- what an imbecile.

If I make it to Weaverville again, I'm going to find that deli and that 
woman. I'm going to order the best sandwich on the menu and talk to her 
the whole time I eat it. I'm going to tell her the best jokes I can think
of. And I'll leave her with my e-mail address and the milly.org Web address.

Of course, you really don't get a second chance very often, if ever, 
whether traveling or in life. So it goes in the struggle for open-mindedness.
May you get pleasantly surprised soon by someone you think you have all sized up.