4 Days in a Beer Desert: A Survivor's Tale – Paste Magazine

So apparently, I’m an entitled asshole. I always suspected as much and my family and friends have certainly hinted at the fact, but my sense of entitlement was driven home recently during a family trip to the beach. I’m not gonna name the town we were in. Let’s just say it’s a southern beach town known for its putt putt courses and pirate themed restaurants. Coming home from our scurvy- fighting buffet one night, I decided to hop into a gas station to pick up a six pack of something local. It seemed like a fairly benign errand at the time. I often try to stimulate the local economy in such a manner when I travel. What can I say, I’m a giver. But the stab n grab only had Budweiser and Coors products. I thought it was odd, but I moved on to the next store, only to find a similar selection. And the next one and the next one. Five stops at various gas stations and the most interesting thing I could find to drink was Smirnoff Ice. There were plenty of shriveled hot dogs for a buck, but no craft beer. Flabbergasted, I sat in our minivan and asked Siri to find the nearest beer store. It was 50 miles away.

That’s when it hit me: I was in a Beer Desert.

You hear about “Food Deserts,” those wastelands without nutrition where families don’t have access to affordable, fresh food, or really anything that doesn’t come out of a drive through window. Apparently, there are also Beer Deserts where privileged dudes with Untappd accounts can’t get access to stouts aged in bourbon barrels.

Crazy, right?

I live in a Beer Town (capital “B” capital “T”), so I’ve been operating under the assumption that everyone in America could

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