Glasgow MO has it's own newspaper, the Glasgow Missourian. It is delightfully old-fashioned, and tells us who has been visiting with whom last week. It looks like it might actually be printed on a press in the back office. I find the office and decide to visit with the editor, but he is not at home.
Likewise, the Library and the Museum are not open till the onset of the noonday sun. I shall have to find a cold day, or be brave.
There has been a mix up with my motel booking, but a nice grown-up lady wafts me off to a place where I can look at covered bridges. First I'm the High Plains Drifter, now I'm looking at covered bridges. They'll be calling me "Clint" soon.
Actually, I'm being wafted off to Slater, about twenty miles away, and it turns out to have nurtured Steve McQueen. "He didn't claim us", says the lady in the tobacco shop, "we claimed him". The reason I'm in the tobacconist's is that smoking is permitted in bars here, and I can't keep bumming cigarettes just to show rebel solidarity.
Later that night I am much more socially productive. I manage to arrange a fishing trip on the great Missouri, and a promise to cook and serve some catfish fillets ("do you mean 'fil-ay'?", they say)
So no Mediterranean lifestyle this Sunday.
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