The Rose Parade is over, the bleachers are coming down, the amazing garbage collection corps has already cleaned up all but a few scraps here and there and the people, the outside people, have all gone home. Thank goodness.
Oh, we welcome them all--look, there's one from Michigan! (For almost everyone originally came, even to Pasadena, from somewhere in the Midwest.) Connecticut--egads, they drove all the way here from Connecticut.
And we are patient, we proud Pasadena residents, waiting at the stop lights for the camper to decide whether he's turning the corner or not, waiting at the gas station for the station wagon to find out how to get to Orange Grove and waiting in line at the supermarkets for people in duckbill caps and wool jackets checking out armfuls of potato chips, corn chips, hot dog buns.
We smile; we welcome them to our city. We are not inconvenienced by having to point out to them how to get to the 210 Freeway or Los Angeles, but, underneath it all, we are tapping our toes, waiting for them to go away again. For what, after all, could possibly be more incongruous than campers in Pasadena?