Okay. Not an absolute secret. But if you were driving past this strip mall, and didn't need a wig, or a fan, you would see little reason to stop. Maybe the pink posts flanking The Girls would give you brief pause.
Most likely, not.
But if you knew what lay behind it, you would stop, you would park, and step through.
And there would be gum, and ice cream and candy, and jam, and chocolate covered pretzels. Promising, if you like sugar, but that's not it.
Through the store and out the back door, and you're there.
A pineapple plantation. A hydroponic strawberry farm. A microcosmic jungle,
thick with trees growing their very strange and beautiful fruit, dripping with them-
and pineapples like flowers.
Then rescued birds, in every color, alongside peacocks and swans and goats and miniature horses, and a tortoise, sleeping somewhere.
No lie, I hear.
But it remains, ultimately, a place to pick strawberries, in season, and buy local fruit, and it's five minutes away. My adopted state can be a strange and frustrating place, and the source of odd stories and much head shaking. And I do shake my head and sigh a lot more than I want to. But it's also a place where people make their own ordinary square feet over to realize their passions, transform them into tropical gardens and bird shelters, bamboo groves and jungle grottoes, glowing with color and humming with sound.