Читать книгу The Hungry Cyclist: Pedalling The Americas In Search Of The Perfect Meal - Tom Davies Kevill - Страница 14

Drawn in by an alluring picture of Miss Minnesota in a floral bikini, I read on. This weekend the town of Frazee was holding some kind of turkey festival, and the article informed me there would be a demolition derby, a mystery gobbler competition, a hillbilly horseshoe contest, a Turkey Dayz parade, a Miss Frazee beauty pageant and, most excitingly, a street dance.

At this point in the trip my contact with the fairer sex had been somewhat limited. The myth that an English accent in America would result in more amorous advances than a man could handle was still, sadly, a myth. I was by no means an ugly cyclist, I didn’t think I smelt too bad, but, to date, the closest I had been to having anything to write home about was an over-eager, over-aged waitress who, bored with serving truck drivers for the majority of her life, cooed over my quaint English inflection.

I had barely seen a girl since leaving New York, but surely a weekend involving a street dance and a beauty parade would provide an opportunity. Farmers’ daughters, beauty queens, beer and line-dancing were on the menu and, who knows, even Miss Frazee herself might fall for my pedal-powered tales of derring-do.

‘More coffee, darling?’

The mental picture I had created was interrupted by the waitress hanging over me with two full percolator jugs of brewed coffee.

‘Sure, thanks. Do you know anything about the Frazee Turkey Dayz?’

The waitress looked blank.

‘Frazee Turkey Dayz?’

Nothing. I held up the article.

‘Fraaaazeeeee. Suuuuure, they’re good folk out that way. It’ll be a blast.’

Ripping the article from its page, I screwed Miss Minnesota into my pocket and was on my way.