We drove out to the edge of the city, past the tall ginkgo trees, past the migrant workers planting flowers in the median, until we reached Strawberry Village (or at least that's what I'll call it, for it was, indeed, a village built entirely on the growing and selling of strawberries).
We knew Strawberry Village was close when we saw strawberry growers standing on the side of the highway in droves, each waving a cardboard sign to advertise his or her particular farm. One old woman with a happy face drew our attention, and so we pulled over, letting her lead us all the way down the road and around the bend, over a bridge, through the village, past the vendor selling brightly-colored kites, past the tiny outdoor cafes where fish were being disemboweled, and slaughtered chickens were being held over smoking bundles of twigs to remove the last of their feathers.
At the very end of the road, at the edge of the village, the old woman stopped her motorbike and directed us to park. We unpacked our kids from our minivans, grabbed baskets, and headed out into the rows and rows of bright red berries.
It was a fantastic, and delicious way to spend a Saturday morning. And I now have a huge container of home made strawberry preserves in the fridge. Mmmmm.