I spent the night in a cottage in the town of Mount Shasta. In the morning Jill let me pull two radishes from her garden. Magic radishes. Obviously. She didn't even have to tell me.I walked to town via a shortcut: behind the library and around the side of the the art bus a plank walk winds its way through marshland and connects houses at the base of the mountain to the shops and motels on the main drag. At Berryvale Grocery I tried to be patient and kind while a crippled old man in anarchist black canvas slowly purchased and packed two quarts of ice cream and a slice of cheesecake while the glossy lipped high off-centered pony tailed young woman rang him up and talk-shouted encouragement. From my vantage point both the ice cream and cake went into the backpack on their sides but I was in no mood to intercede. Like everyone else in Shasta I was calm on the outside, burning with rage on the inside. Because New Agers are frustrating to everyone including themselves. The strange and terrifying thing was that no one noticed I was a tourist, fresh from the road, newly peeled from the chic modern culture of Portland OR. On the contrary I seemed to blend right in with my beret and blazer. When did I become this woman? And why don't I care?