It was time for our beach trip, the one I take with my wife and daughter every summer. On a beautiful early morning a month ago, we packed the family car (okay, my wife packed it) and headed from our home in Oxford, Miss., to Florida’s Gulf Coast for a week of fun and sun.
Some call it the Redneck Riviera. This Jersey transplant and his Mississippi girls call it paradise.
It’s the same Gulf Coast, by the way, that the media predicted — even seemed to hope — would be flooded with crude oil and destroyed as a result of the BP oil spill. That apocalypse never happened, but the region needed two years to recover from the really bad publicity spill, which the media never bothered to clean up.
We hit the road at 6 a.m. so as not to lose a day at the beach, and by 10 a.m. we were all getting hungry, so we stopped at a Subway shop in a small town somewhere in rural Alabama.
As we entered, we were greeted by an Indian-immigrant couple in their mid-30s and their daughter, who appeared to be no older than twelve. I didn’t ask.
While we were thinking about what to order, the young girl was busily making trip after trip from a prep area in the back of the family’s franchise to the counter, filling each of the bins with produce. First it was thinly sliced fresh tomatoes, then lettuce, then onions. Then it was olives, and jalapeño peppers.
When we ordered our lunch, she removed her plastic gloves and cheerfully switched roles. The prep girl was now the sandwich dresser.
“What would you like on your sandwiches?