Today I drove for about four hours to get to a poetry slam.
It was at this little local coffee shop, on a corner downtown. I was met by a friend and we went there, and we were greeted by a man with figs.*
It was a night of words and rhythm and beautiful people.
The people there were amazing, but more than that, encouraging. I’m quickly hurtling towards the precipice of “No Longer Living in One’s Home Country”, and there is a good deal of trepidation that comes with that.
Everyone I spoke with was absolutely supportive.
“Yes,” they would say, “this is when to do that! You’re young, you’re free! You’ll never regret it. When you’re seventy years old, you will look back on this and say ‘It’s the best thing I ever did.’ Explore! Get out there! It will be amazing!”
And for once, “They” are completely, totally correct.
I didn’t know this, but apparently figs have two harvests. The first harvest is the one that happens when the bees are around, pollinating flowers. The second harvest usually doesn’t get pollinated. The second harvest really only happens in warmer climates; in cooler conditions the fruit doesn’t ripen and instead has to be picked off the trees so they don’t rot and give the trees fungal infections.