“T for Texas”: Beau? Mont?

Wednesday night, August 8

To say I was frustrated with myself is to indulge in grandiose understatement. I painted the wind shield of the van with a palette of colors that would make Jackson Pollock weep with envy. By leaving my backpack, ‘I would have to spend another fourteen hours (the library opens at 9 a.m.) in Beaumont, when I could be enjoying a Cajun breakfast in Lafayette, Louisiana. So I did what any self-respecting Southern man would do in such a situation. Find a bar.

Preferably one with internet access. I found such a place in the Logon Cafe. This was indeed a great place. There was an eclectic mix of musical instruments, art, pictures, and other odds and ends on the walls. The floors were checker board linoleum, and there was a long, curved bar sticking out into the middle of the room. I set up camp with my laptop and ordered a beer.

The place was quiet, and I was being eyed by more than one of the locals. Beaumont didn’t strike me as the type of town where everyone knew everyone, but it definitely seemed like the place where everyone knew enough. I kept to myself and did some writing while a guy began stringing wires for microphones. Tonight happened to be open-mic night. I couldn’t decide right away if I was happy or angry by this fact.  I thought it might help my mood, but it could also really tip me over the edge.

In the end, it was great. One guy started it off on piano and was not too bad. He did a Journey, Foreigner, Billy Joel, and Elton John medley that was pretty good to listen to. A comedian got up and delivered a slew of domestic violence, drunk driving, and sex jokes that gained a couple of laughs. A group of eight or nine younger, high-schoolish kids filed in and camped out in the chairs right in front of the mics. Two of the guys got up and played. One covered Caedmon’s Call; the other did originals. Their posse of girls sat and ate it up. Then a girl hopped up with the two guys and they did a rousing set of worship songs and hymns. Now I enjoy a good hymnal. I saw the Avett Brothers do “Just a Closer Walk with Thee” once during a concert, and it was phenomenal. Something about a call to worship in a bar, though, just didn’t feel right.

Later on an older black guy hopped up on the stool with a guitar. This guy made my night.

“Back in the 1970s,” he started off, “I wrote this song and played it for a good friend of mine: Johnny Cash. He told me I oughtta go on up to Nashville and record it. I saw naw, naw, and never did end up goin. But he liked it, so I’m gonna play it for y’all.”

He started playing a song about going to the moon. Not going to lie, it had a good sound and a solid bluesy-funk to it. The words were pretty bizarre though, and he started making noises like the final fight in space during Return of the Jedi. That kind of lost me, but then again, I love Star Wars.

A few other people got up there, including a rapper who was actually pretty good on a couple of songs, and a guy with a taste for Hinder, Seether, and Theory of a Deadman who played sad songs on guitar. My opinions will remain my own on that one. All in all, it boosted my mood and gave me a laugh.

I went outside before it got too late and called my aunt. She said wanted my opinion of Beaumont.

“I don’t get it,” I said. “There’s no ‘beau’ here. There’s not even a ‘mont’! The whole thing looks like false advertising to me. I’m going to write a letter.”

“I told you,” she said laughing. It was good to hear her laugh. She hadn’t been doing it much since she found out about the cancer. “You would’ve been better to pass it by. Now you know.”

“Yeah I do. Anytime I feel bad about my home town, I’ll think of Beaumont.”

I drove out on the outskirts to a nicer strip mall, parked it for the night and went to bed. Tomorrow I would go grab my backpack, print off the things I didn’t get, and get on to Lafayette.

“T for Texas”: Beaumont

Wednesday, August 8

When I was visiting my family in Houston, we naturally talked about my trip.

“So, where are you off to next? Where is the next stop?” my cousin asked.

“Well, from here I leave to Beaumont for a minute. Then Lafayette, Morgan City, Houma, New Orleans… then up through Mississippi and Alabama all the way to Virginia.”

At the mention of Beaumont, my aunt’s face darkened a little and grew a strange, puzzled smile.

“You’re stopping in Beaumont?” she asked

“Yeah?” A light question mark at the end.

“Why would you ever want to do that?” she laughed as if she had been holding back some unpleasantly funny thought. “It’s the–armpit of Texas.”

This was the first mild warning I had received about Beaumont, and it wouldn’t be the last. I am, however, completely foolhardy most of the time and incredibly stubborn some of the time. Though I was talking to someone who is essentially an “Honorary Texan,” I chalked up my aunt’s critique of Beaumont as a product of  her being a Southern Lady: as if Beaumont was a rough-and-tumble Texan town with bar fights and casinos, ringed in by oil refineries. No such place for a lady.

Babe Zaharias Museum and Visitor Center

When I drove in to Beaumont, I stopped at a gas station to ask for directions into town. Luckily I stopped next to the information and tourist center, so I sauntered over. I’m still not exactly sure what this building was. It was half information hub for Beaumont, half shrine to local athletic legend, Babe Zaharias. Actually, the ratio was more like 80-20 in favor of Babe.

Maybe I’m a brute who didn’t do as much research as I should’ve, but I’ve never heard of Babe before. She was, allegedly, one of the greatest athletes of the 20th century. Judging by this one-room sanctuary the city of Beaumont has established, it would be easy to think that Jonas Salk might have been a little dishonest and Zaharias was the real scientist.

The woman behind the counter seemed frustrated that I was asking about the city and not about Zaharias. Instead of directions, she gave me a map, which was more probably convenient, albeit, telling of how little effort she wanted to waste on me. Did I smell that bad?  I was polite enough  to look around at all the artifacts left by this legendary woman. As I left, the woman all but yelled, “Hey! Could you sign my guestbook?” In the small domed room, her voice froze me in my tracks. I wanted to run. Fast. I almost bolted to the door in terror but made the mistake of looking back at her–into her eyes. I was a pillar of salt.

Behold! The dog’s idol and deity!

I signed a distant relatives’ name and got out. Not the best intro into this city, and the whole experience was downhill from there. I passed by “The World’s Largest Fire Hydrant” on my way to the library downtown. It sure was a big fire hydrant. Painted up like a dalmatian. Stay positive, I thought. This place isn’t that bad yet. You have no right to be cynical yet, dammit.

Tyrrell Historical Library in Beaumont, TX. Medieval design. Medieval equipment.

I found my way into the Tyrrell Historical Library. It’s a very pretty library which resembles a medieval castle a la Texas. I was going to look at newspapers from the weeks in 1960 when Steinbeck was in the area. In Travel’s with Charley, he describes Thanksgiving in Amarillo. Schools in New Orleans were desegregated on November 14, 1960. On December 2, 1960, he sent a postcard from the Pelahatchie, Mississippi post office to his wife in Sag Harbor. That means from around November 24 to December 2, he was anywhere between Amarillo and Pelahatchie. I needed to see what was going on in Texan newspapers all around that time.

I talked to the lady at the desk who led me into the microform room. She said I have to leave my backpack, but I can take my computer and whatever else I need. That is important. I went back and found what I needed with the aid of an incredibly slow-talking guy. I’ve recently become aware of the fact that I have tendencies to talk pretty slow, but this guy was definitely the tortoise to my hare. He was a great guy, though, who was pretty helpful overall.

Only two of those buildings have businesses inside them. The rest are dust and empty.

After a few hours in the room, I got hungry. The other gentleman, a slightly stooped, balding man with a high-alto voice, advised me to partake in a sub shop that was around the corner. This was my first real look at downtown Beaumont, and there wasn’t anything to look at. It looked like a shanty town. I would say that 70 percent of the buildings downtown didn’t look open. 30 percent of those were actually boarded up.  It’s so strange. “Other times I have come to Beaumont dripping with sweat and lusting for ice and air-conditioning,” Steinbeck wrote about his drive through in November 1960. “Now Beaumont with all its glare of neon signs was what they call froze up.” Well it’s August. I’m dripping with sweat, and Beaumont is still “froze up.” No neon to be found. I don’t know why, but I’m not sure it ever thawed from Steinbeck’s time. It really weighs in on the soul to see such degradation in a town. It has such potential. It was probably once a booming place, but now it has fallen into a hot, dusty sleep.

I had an amazing Reuben sandwich from Chuck’s Sandwich Shop–the one that’s open, not to be confused with the one that is barred shut across the street. The High Alto gent was right and props to him.

On returning to the library I left my bag again. That is, again, important. And that is where my day went to hell in a hand basket and all of Beaumont with it. I began to find all the articles I needed and get them ready for printing. Once I was ready, I realized there were two other people ahead of me for the microform printer. By the time they finished, it was 4:30 p.m. The library closes at 6.

“You’ve got about an hour and a half to wrap everything up,” said the slow talking guy after a lengthy tutorial about how to use the printer.

Doing work before my fateful printing experience.

Basically, the printer was overheating because of the heavy toll of having three people use it in one day. Not only that but the gears that wind the film were old and had to be wound by hand. This would not be an issue if I wasn’t trying to print two pages from fifteen different issues of two different papers. That means almost sixty pages. Here I am, getting steadily more angry, winding the film into place, adjusting the toner, clearing the printer of a jam every other print, and all with Slowtalking McGee standing over, chiming in every fifteen minutes about how much time I have left. To be fair, he helped a great deal and offered some words to pacify.

“Man. I’m sorry about all that,” he said. “That machine is just old and a few people have used it today. Man, no one ever uses that machine, and it goes to figure that the one day everyone uses it is the one day someone like you really needs it.”

Thanks. Man.

I left in a mild frenzy with less than half of the articles I had planned to have. I walked to my car in a different parking lot, set all my stuff down in the seat, and think to myself, I just want to get out of here. If I get on to Lafayette, everything will be alright. Key in the ignition. Click. Click-click. Cli-cli-cli-cli-click. I noticed the headlights were left on. Yes. Great. I love it. Fifteen minutes later, just as I was about to call AAA, a woman walked by. She looked at me like I was a leper, but I convinced her to jump me off. She does while eyeing me suspiciously and texting the entire time. I thank her, jump in my car, and blaze for the interstate. About halfway there I reach for something in my backpack. Well… where did it g-… No. Yes. It was in the library. The library that closed thirty minutes ago.

“T for Texas” Part: ?

Tuesday, August 7

I’m glad and upset I stayed an extra night in Austin. Glad because I tried some amazing barbecue. Upset because I need to catch up on lost time.

I talked earlier about the bigness of Texas. To really explore the bigness, I’m going the wrong way. To the west lies the real frontier. The open range. Well, the West. It’s interesting seeing the veins of Texas all wrapped around Dallas, Austin, Houston, and San Antonio. It’s even more interesting to see how they thin toward the west. Huge white spaces filled with grassland, sand, cattle, and maybe a little oil between thin red and blue lines on the map. But those white spaces will be left now for another time. Now I leave Austin for Houston and the varicose east end of Texas.

Steinbeck says he bypassed Houston in 1960. I planned on doing the same, but with one caveat. I have a great aunt who is battling bladder cancer who lives in Houston. I last saw her ten years ago, and realistically won’t see her many more times in this life. Family plays an important role in my day to day life, and it is extremely important to me to see her while I have the chance. Houston, for that reason, is not bypassable. In fact, it may be the most important stop on my trip.

In Travels with Charley, Steinbeck says that the trip is something that exists outside of the traveller. The trip is a force of its own. It is, in many ways, like a child that grows with the roll of the odometer. It’s possible to prod the child in certain directions, but what happens between point A and point B are not always in the driver’s control. But sometimes they are. That said, I knew I couldn’t pass by La Grange untouched. It was over twenty miles out of the way, but it would be a disservice to my taste in music, my father’s instruction in music appreciation, to the great ZZ Top, and, thereby, to the great Texan nation.

I love how Steinbeck talks about antique stores at the beginning of his trip:

I believe the population of the thirteen colonies was less than four million souls, and every one of them must have been frantically turning out tables, chairs, china, glass, candle molds, and oddly shaped bits of iron, copper, and brass for future sale to twentieth-century tourists. There are enough antiques for sale along the roads of New England alone to furnish the houses of a population of fifty million.” (36)

After driving a few highways and back roads in Texas, I’m convinced there are three requirements to be considered a town by the state government: a bar, a church, and an antique store. There was not a stretch lasting more than three or four miles in which I didn’t see one of those three things. Maybe it’s not a requirement to be a town, then, after all. I’ll bet it’s a state requirement to have a bar, church, or antique shop within 10-mile-radii of each other. That way, after a long day of antique shopping, residents can have a relaxing drink and then pray it off come Sunday.

Rumor spreadin’ round.

I wish that I had had more time to spend in La Grange. The city limit sign boasted a population of somewhere around 4,500, but for a small town, this place seemed cool. The down town looked alive, unlike a lot of the other small towns I had already encountered. It’s a town relatively untouched by sprawl, which is always a pleasure to see. There’s also the Texas Quilt Museum. It may strike you as lame that I would want to go see such a thing, but quilts are a vital part of Southern tradition. Quilts were a symbol of family and heritage. They would be passed down for generations and constantly mended and added to. Just read “Everyday Use” by Alice Walker and you’ll understand.

I barely spent any time in La Grange. I had to move on so that I could visit with my family before my aunt went to bed. But one day I plan to go back there. So many small towns seem to be sputtering out or going through a death rattle. La Grange may be one of those, but, on a drive-by, it’s the kind of place I would like to go again. And no, I didn’t stop by the little shack outside. A-haow, haow, haow, haow.

I got back on US 290 and rode it all the way to Houston–one bar, church, and antique shop at a time. There’s honestly so much I skipped by. I don’t see how Steinbeck lived with himself. He spends a substantial portion of the book talking just about the Texas spirit and the vastness of Texas. Maybe it was too big for him at the tail end of his trip. Too many junk stores. Too many bars. Too many people.

My aunt lives in a nice house on the outer rim of Houston. She is from Red Bay, Alabama along with most of my maternal family. She’s worked her way up as a hair dresser and has made some incredibly decent money doing so. Throw in a little real estate and she is sitting pretty up in the Houston burbs. Her name is Polly. Polly recently had chemotherapy for the first time, and no one back home knew what to expect. Her daughter, my cousin, Carmen was there taking care of her. I can only barely remember meeting Carmen once, so this trip was going to be a good reunion.

Polly is still beautiful. The treatment has zapped her energy, but she still has a sharp wit and quick laugh. She embodies what it means to be a Southern Lady. That morning, as soon as she heard I was coming, she quickly put on make-up and laid back down so that she could be rested enough entertain me. We sat and laughed and told stories about the family until Polly had to lay down. Carmen and I stayed up late into the night discussing everything about the family and why I should come visit them in Tulsa. My next roadtrip may be recreating The Grapes of Wrath.

I had a great visit, but needed to move onward. I drove as far as I could go, stopped for coffee, and drove some more. A Houston radio station was having an hour-long Skynyrd-thon and it’s hard to stop driving when “Free Bird” is on. Followed by “Tuesday’s Gone.” Followed by “Call Me the Breeze.” They played everything you could want them to.

Next stop, Beaumont. Then Louisiana. On that note:

“T for Texas” Part 5

Tuesday, August 7

I think it’s amazing that Steinbeck breezed through Austin like it was some one-horse town. It’s also a downright shame. Maybe he had seen it before and knew there was nothing for him here. But being the capitol of the Nation of Texas, there should be at least a nod toward it.

Bob Bullock Texas State History Museum.

I started the day with a trip to the Texas State History Museum. All in all, the museum was a little gimmicky. I don’t mean that in a bad way, but it was definitely geared toward a younger crowd. I say that mostly because mannequins scare a little of the hell out of me. Museums with mannequins automatically lose a star in my book. What was great, however, was the Texas Music Roadtrip exhibit. The exhibit features the history of prominent Texas musicians by walking through each region of the state. I definitely learned some things. I had no idea Scott Joplin and Beyonce were born in Texas. For those of you who don’t know who Joplin is, here is my face. For those of you who are curious, here is your answer.

Just kidding. He’s here. 

Letter written from Lead Belly to Alan Lomax. He was a very polite guy, come to find out. The record is a first cut by Blind Lemon Jefferson.

One of my favorite parts of the exhibit was a letter written by Lead Belly to Alan Lomax asking if the governor liked his music. Lomax was on a tour through the American South documenting folklore and folk songs and stumbled upon Lead Belly in Angola Prison. Lomax liked his music so much he recorded Lead Belly singing and brought the record to the governor asking for the governor to pardon Lead Belly. Lomax effectively convinced the governor to pardon Lead Belly so that he could pursue a career in music. Because of Lomax, Lead Belly is now one of the defining voices that echo through the history of the blues.

The rest of the museum was great too. It does a pretty good job of explaining why Texas has been independent. I think it’s walking a fine line, though, between embracing Americanness and holding on to Texanness. It’s as if the museum doesn’t want to say, “But hey, we’re still Texans more than Americans.” And maybe that’s something that is becoming more of a novelty that sucker tourists like me eat up. Steinbeck called Texas a “state of mind.” Whatever it is, they are doing an excellent job of marketing it.

In speaking of Steinbeck, I think one thing that he missed out on was the food. Sprinkled through Travels with Charley are comments about the nation’s food. Sometimes it’s amazing and natural and real. Sometimes, which seems more often than not, it is empty and tasteless and plastic. I think what he needed in his foodfunk was some Texas barbecue.

I went for lunch at a place called Franklin Barbecue. It was one of the first choices on a list of restaurants that “You have just got to try in Austin.” As soon as I walked up, three things told me it was going to be good. One, the building was an unassuming, faint aquamarine and white painted cinder block with a wooden porch. It could’ve easily been a pawn shop or Mexican restaurant as anything else. Two, the smell. I think there is something about the smell of barbecue that triggers an ancient, pre-Paleolithic hunger. It’s the kind of hunger that starts a small fire deep in the hungered’s stomach and spreads into every nerve and fiber in the body until the very soul is consumed by hickory-smoked fumes and the primal urge to feast upon sweet, tender flesh. Three, the line of people about thirty deep just to get into the building. Nothing is that good, I thought. So I stuck around to prove myself wrong.

I took my spot in line behind two guys who were soaked in sweat. One wore a white shirt, gym shorts, and a slight, rugged black beard. The other guy wore a red original Donkey Kong shirt with shaggy reddish mop of hair. We exchanged the universal head nod–that’s a forward nod, not a back tip–and dipped into silence.

“So this place is pretty good, huh?” Yeah it was a weak intro. Sue me.

“Oh yeah, man. It’s great. You’ve never been here?” asked Donkey Kong.

“Nah man, this is my first time. First time in Austin.”

“Nice,” said the guy in the white shirt. “You came to a good place then. Are you in Austin for a while?”

“No, I’m actually leaving after lunch. Heading to Houston.”

“Oh, well then, yeah. You’ve definitely gotta eat here then. This is some of the best barbecue in Austin.”

On the door to the entrance, still about twenty or so people away, was a sign that said, “Hours: 11 a.m. until we sell out!” Donkey Kong explained that they make everything fresh every morning and pretty much go until it’s gone. Sometimes that happens at 3:00. Sometimes it happens as early as 1:30. While he was saying this, a hostess came out selling beers and saying that they were already out of ribs, but they would have enough brisket, chicken, and pulled pork. It was 12:16.

I finally thought to introduce myself. White shirt was Nate from California who had been living in Austin for six or seven years. Donkey Kong was Matt, an Austin native, Texan ex-pat, and had been back in Austin off and on for five years. Matt said he had seen the line stretch out to the middle of the parking lot–a solid twenty yards away from the building. The reason Matt and Nate were so sweaty was that they had just biked eight miles to come eat lunch here. Luckily the line was moving fast today and we would get a chance to gorge some brisket.

The inside was just as simple as the rest of the place. It was all wooden and old. On the walls were articles from different magazines: the Texas Monthly, Bon Appetite, and Edible Austin. There was a certificate from a local food organization calling it “The best barbecue in the history of the world.” I read in one of the articles that the owner, Aaron Franklin, fires up his grill at 3:30 a.m. six days of the week.

He was also the one slicing up huge cuts of brisket or pulled pork for his customers. A great way to do business, I thought. He looked like a younger, edgier Seth MacFarlane, and he laughed and joked with all of the customers. Nate and Matt told him I’m from Alabama and it was my first time here. He asked me if I wanted it with a little more fat or not. I know in a health-conscious society with people plagued by heart disease and obesity, he needs to ask that question. But for a second I paused at the absurdity of insinuating that I would even think about having less fat on my quarter-pound Texan brisket sandwich. He cut off a little extra brisket and asked, “How’s that look?”

“Amazing.” I choked back a tear.

I’m not sure I’ve ever eaten barbecue before. And I’m afraid I never will again. This was by far one of the best things I’ve eaten. Ever. The meat was incredibly tender. It melted in my mouth like a hot Krispy Kreme doughnut—a doughnut made of sweet barbecue. The whole sandwich melted in my hand. After I finished, I was left in shock and awe, and I wanted another. I could already feel a food-coma coming on though, and I needed to be in Houston in a few hours, so I opted out. But please, dear reader, go to Franklin’s in Austin, TX, if you have any shred of decency or appreciation for beauty and all good and holy things in this world.

This post is long, but there’s one more part to the BBQ story. Between mouthfuls of pork, Matt and Nate told me the story of Aaron Franklin’s rise to power. Several years ago, Franklin worked for a guy named John Mueller. Mueller was highly regarded as the master of Texas barbecue. His family owned a world-famous smokehouse, and he has spent years perfecting his recipes. According to Matt, Mueller enjoyed the bottle quite a bit. Due to constant abuse, his whole life fell apart and his business shut down. Franklin decides to buy Mueller’s smoker from him and open up a food truck of his own. From a parking lot somewhere in Austin, Franklin began churning out the best barbecue in Texas, and people were noticing. Now, ten years later, Franklin has his own place with a line that wraps around the building on a daily basis. Enter the fallen John Mueller. Seeing his younger ex-employee’s success has prompted Mueller to get back in the business.  Now with his life back together and a food truck a few miles from Franklin’s, Mueller has vowed to reclaim the throne and reestablish his rule in the world of Texas BBQ.

How’s that for epic?

I’m now on my way to Houston, TX, which will be featured in the next post.

“T for Texas” Part 4: Texas Boogie

After lunch on Monday I headed to South Congress to see what was going on. I can’t say that it’s my favorite part of town, but I think that’s because of how hot it was. I could really feel the age, though. If it had been 1874, I think I would’ve enjoyed it a lot more.

Morning on South Congress facing north. The dome of the capitol building is visible at the very far end.

The layout of South Congress is like a classic one-lane, dusty Texas town.  The road has expanded a bit and become asphalt, but the age is tangible otherwise. All it needs is some dueling and some cattle rustlers. What it doesn’t need is more antique shops. If it wasn’t an antique shop, it was a novelty store. And I ate it up. There was a shop called Uncommon Goods that went on for forever. I think, though I’m miles away now, my mind is still wandering in and out the booths and doorways to the past.

“Sorry, we’re open.”

After a little while of stopping in shops only to not buy anything–if you remember how terrible of a shopper I am–I went on to search out the Magnolia Cafe. Here is a place I could live out my days. The sign on the road has to be from the 50s and stood bleached in the early afternoon light. The building, outside and in, is done in vibrant, 80s fluorescent pinks, blues, and greens. The walls on the inside are wrapped in patterns done by Picasso if he had a spray paint can and a back alley as canvas in 1989. My waiter was an older, grizzled man who looked like he knew what it meant to have a long night. The one I saw the most of was a tall guy with his dreaded hair pulled back into a massive nest on his head who said everything as if it was a question. His voice was surprisingly high-pitched for his size.

I was still recovering from those two Queso Catfish filets, so I just had coffee with a homemade brownie and ice-cream. This a case of everything being bigger in Texas. It was massive. I hate it when I order something like this and it ends up being mostly whip cream. No, this was all ice-cream with a modest dab of cream on top. My sweet tooth just about fell out.

I wandered around awhile and ended up back on the other side of the river at a cafe called Hideout Theatre. I had read that they do an open mic on Monday nights and I felt like reading. Sadly, they had cancelled it for some theatre class which was ticketed and sold out. The other event I wanted to go to was sold out as well: The Big Lebowski Quote Along. Can you imagine? I mean, I do that sort of thing in my living room at home. Whole groups of people pack out a theatre to do it every weekend with a different movie every week. I love this city.

It was then that I remembered the Continental Club. It was also then that the night got interesting. The retro light over the Club’s door staggered its letters, let out one big flash, and staggered again. I walked through the door to the sound of the Dale Watson band playing. I walked through the door to Texas. The lights were dim and red except for the ones on the band. The walls were covered in memorabilia from every era and part of Texas. They took a special pride in the fact that Buck Owens played there quite a bit back in the day. When I walked in and had my drink–whiskey straight, this is Texas, by damn–Dale started playing his original song “Country My Ass.”

Dale Watson band could make even a city boy like me fall in love with country. The lap-steel guitar breezed through the songs like a softmetal tumbleweed. The double bass lapped and slapped like water on the riverside.  The guitar went down like good whiskey during slow songs. It crunched like a dusty bootheel boogie during fast ones.

And the band was only half the show. The dancers were the other half. Between ten to fifteen couples crowded the dance floor at any given point. They bounced and bobbed and swept each other around in a Texas two-step or a country swing or the occasional waltz. There was one young guy, in particular, who was tearing it up. He wore the obligatory white cowboy hat, a red shirt tucked in to high-waisted pants, and modest boots. He swayed and dipped and strutted with every girl he danced with, all the while somehow accenting her to make her look good. In dancing, the man is supposed to be the frame and the woman the painting. He knew this and more.

At some point a dark-haired woman in a white dress and boots stood beside me with her blonde friend. The blonde friend set her drink between us to use the restroom and looked up directly at me, did a double-take, and said, “Don’t roofie my drink.”

“No worries.”

She walked off and the first woman said, “Sorry, she can get a little crazy.” She had eyes that looked sad and like they were a few drinks in. “I’m Tobin.”

“I’m Andy. Are you from Austin?”

She wasn’t. She was from Marfa, Texas. It’s a small town west of Austin with a population of around 2,000. Mostly artists and writers, she said. Tobin was a freelance writer herself and was visiting her friend Jen–the blonde one– who lived in Austin. Pam came back shortly and sipped her drink.

“Did you put roofies in here?”

“Yeah, totally. Just a little bit,” I said holding my fingers up to show how much. “A little roofie never hurt anyone.”

She thought that was more than funny and introduced herself. Jen was a wife, mother of two children, and having a great time. She was also married to a man who was “beefy” and “like six-foot four or something” and “could kick my ass.” She wanted me and everyone who walked by to know.

When Tobin was asked to dance, Jen got upset. This was recurring theme for the night. But I noticed everyone was dancing with everyone. They would just swap partners every song or two.

“I would offer to dance with you,” I said, “but I think I would trip over you and me.”

She laughed, “I’m sure you’d do fine.”

“Well, it seems like dancing with someone is nothing here. Like no one reads into it too much.”

“Oh no. It’s something.” She was serious. “There are cliques,” and she sipped her pale yellow drink.

The image is blurry, but that’s the best I could do without standing out and looking like “That guy in the shorts and Sperry’s taking pictures on his cell phone.”

This astonished me. Dancing cliques in a downtown Texas boogie bar. I want to come back here someday and explore the Texas dancing scene. There’s got to be a lifetime of material here. The cliques were pretty real too. When Tobin came back, Jen had wrangled herself a parter. Tobin started pointing out everyone she knew. There was Joel, the young guy I described, who is shy and awkward off the dancefloor; Larry looked to be in his mid-sixties and was a retired Houston cop of twenty years; Everett was a bald man with a trimmed peppery beard and regarded as one of the best dancers of the night.

He was also coming to ask Tobin to dance. She introduced me and he started making conversation. Come to find out, we both know a guy named Floyd who graduated from UNA. Talk about a small world. Dale Watson started playing “Whiskey or God” and that was Everett’s cue to dance again.

The night went on and we all shared laughs. Jen had a good time laughing with, but mostly at, me. Apparently I was “cute” and not wearing the proper shoes. For anyone reading this, don’t go to any Texan bar wearing Sperry’s. Just don’t. I was about to say my goodbyes to the group when Dale played another upbeat swing tune. Jen grabbed me, said, “No way. You’re not leaving here without dancing,” and dragged me to the dance floor. I know my way around a swing step but only my way around it. Not my way into it. We almost fell more than once, and I think I impressed her more than once. The song ended and I dipped her down–like all the good dancers do and did–and that was that. We said our goodbyes. They wished me well on my adventures.

And that was that.

The worst part about travelling is the “Goodbye.” It’s not something you get used to. I’ve said goodbye to people all over the world, and you would think it gets easier. It’s not just saying goodbye to nameless faces though. That’s easy. It’s saying goodbye to someone you made some sort of connection with. Even if it is just a few drinks, a dance, a good conversation, or just knowing a common person from the past. The “Goodbye” is the acknowledgement of distance and time and the fact that sometimes paths cross once and once only.

I drove fast, south. I pulled into an empty parking lot, climbed in the back, and went to sleep.

“T for Texas” Part 3

I woke up fairly early Monday morning. It’s easy to wake up early when the weedeater/air-conditioner sputters out and even the act of sleeping invokes sweat.

I was meeting a cousin of the professor back home who helped me mastermind this whole trip later today. Until then, I decided to do some touristy things and check out the capitol building. I spent half the morning walking the grounds and taking in the view. It’s a very gorgeous striking building. The original builders were going to use a certain kind of limestone, but because of the high iron content it turned a reddish color. The owner of a quarry at Granite Mountain decided to donate pink granite to the state so they wouldn’t have to use the limestone. The whole building is a dull, light red in the morning, and the lights make it shine pink at night.

The names of the deceased line the interior of each column with the leaders at the top.

Several monuments to Texan history decorated the grounds. There was one dedicated to the soldiers killed at the Alamo with all of their names listed in the granite. Another was to Confederate soldiers during the Civil War. My favorite was a fairly new one which celebrated the romantic and dramatic heritage of the cowboy (image at top). I’m continually amazed at the way I feel like I’m in a foreign country. It makes sense because of Texas’ long history with Mexico, but even over 150 years after independence and annexation this place feels foreign.

 

The capitol stands at the northern part of Congress Street which divides Austin into east and west. From the grounds, it’s possible to look all the way through the heart of the city and across the river to one of the older parts. I walked down Congress and stopped at the Mexic-Arte Museum. It was a small museum, but it had a great exhibit on what the curator called graffiticanos–Mexican and Latino street artists. Some of it was wild and bizarre, and some of it was politically charged and reminiscent of Bansky. I’m avoiding getting on a huge rant tinged by post-colonialism and the illusions of cultural melting pots. I may save that for Louisiana.

I met my professor’s kin-folk at a great restaurant across the river, a little off the beaten path and main drag of Austin, called Shady Grove. We sat on the open-air stone patio with colored lights, a wooden stage, and shaded by huge pecan trees that would let a pecan fall every once in a while. I only have two pairs of four words concerning the food for you my dear, hungry reader: Tortilla Fried Queso Catfish. Sweet Lord Baby Jesus.

My host, Chris, is a Texan through and through. He isn’t of the hand-rolled, whip-cracking breed though. He’s a business man and is making a name for himself with couple of salons he owns in Austin. And there’s something about Texans and their hair styles. I have a great-aunt in Houston who has made a fortune as a beautician. Well, some real estate speculation hasn’t hurt her, but mostly hair dressing. It’s wild, inspiring, and a little scary.

Chris and I talked a lot about Austin. He echoed what I have read and heard which is that Austin is getting bigger and no one wants it to. Especially the people who come to Austin.

“It’s funny,” he said. “Everyone wants to come to Austin. Even from other cities in Texas. Everyone wants to get here.” A little regional pride as mentioned previously, perhaps? “The problem is, people visit here and they love it and move here. And even though they just got here, they don’t want anyone else to come in. So they’re part of the problem, but they’re already here. So it’s kind of awkward.”

“Yeah, a bartender I talked to last night said that the city wasn’t designed to expand. That’s why the interstate is so messed up on I-35,” I said. And it’s true. I-35 coming into Austin isn’t confusing, per se, but it’s very hard to navigate. Apparently they couldn’t expand the original highway, so when they made it into an interstate they fashioned this strange double-decker situation. The result? Chaos.

“That’s true,” he said, laughing. “Actually, and it’s not funny, the original designer who engineered the interstate, because of the amount of accidents that have happened–and people have been killed there–the guy ended up killing himself. I mean there’s no way to link it to that, but a lot of people speculated about it.”

I could see the potential for some serious accidents, but I don’t have statistics about traffic accents. Yet. I think every single time I’ve gotten on it, I’ve left on the wrong exit at least once. But that’s probably mostly me. Did I mention I don’t have a GPS with me on this excursion? Well, I don’t.

“One of the best things about this city,” Chris went on, “Is how smart and young and surprisingly liberal it is. Which usually you find those things go together. But look around you.” I looked. “How many families do you see? How many have you seen since you’ve been here?”

“Not many, actually, now that you mention it.”

“Yeah. The average age here is like 30. And it’s been called the best city for singles.”

Don’t get me wrong, I like kids. But I think that’s one of the reasons I like this city so much. The single thing, sure, but there aren’t many older people. It’s an incredibly young place. If the people are old they probably play the blues and sip whiskey like any old Texan should. Which I’m not used to.

After lunch, Chris gave me the tip to check out South Congress across the river. He said that it’s the “original Austin.” The place that still looks like the “old part of town.” And he specifically mentioned the Magnolia Cafe and the Continental Club. We parted ways full of food and good conversation, both carrying To Go boxes.

I’m stopping here because this is a long post and South Congress deserves a post all its own.

“T for Texas” Part 2: Austin City Limits

I’m terrible at shopping. I can’t shop for myself at all. I think I just don’t like the idea of buying things for myself. And I don’t know why. I’m just not good at it. This truth about me applies to food, clothing, and hotels. Upon driving into Austin on I-35 on Sunday, I began to scout for some decent and cheap place that looked like it probably didn’t have hepatitis. I stopped by a Super 8 which charged a little over sixty bucks, but the check in time wasn’t until 3 p.m. As it was before noon, I kept going. At the Motel 6 a block down, the man behind the desk told me to give him forty-five minutes and he’d have a room ready for fifty-five dollars. He was quick and friendly and was a great help the whole stay. He told me about a place around the corner that makes their burger buns fresh twice a day and has “the best damn burger’s you’ll get.”

I was a little skeptical of the claim, but then again every shop, cafe, burger stand, and food vendor claims to have the best of

Not a bad first meal in Austin. Not Texan by any means, but they’ve got fresh buns. Everyone loves fresh buns.

something. I found the place: Burger Tex. To be honest, it was a damn good burger. The bread was light and fluffy, the meat flavorful, and the tomatoes fresh sliced. Since I’m in Texas I got pepper jack cheese and topped it with jalapeños. Go big or go home.

I went back to the hotel to check in. There was a woman in front of me in line. She was about five foot four, slightly darkened skin which could have been sun as easily as genetics, and a healthy amount of tattoos from the top of her foot to the nape of her neck. They were talking about their homes, and she was on her way back.

“Yeah, Austin is a great town,” Mr. Clerk was saying. “I like Texas, though.”

“What? Texas sucks,” Tattoo girl said. “It’s too hot. I’m from Cali, so we don’t ever have to deal with heat like this. West coast all the way.”

“Yeah, I been out there before,” Clerk said. “It’s real nice. But I feel like everyone wants to represent where they’re from.” When he talked, he looked at both me and Cali, even though I hadn’t planned on being invited to the conversation.

“I’m from Alabama, and it gets really hot there too. And muggy,” I offered. I guess that’s my representation of Alabama.

“In Texas, people all identify with different towns, right? I mean, I’m from Austin, so I love Austin. Other people be like ‘Yeah, Houston’s best’ or ‘San Anton’s best.’ There’s a lot of pride in where people come from. Houston people knock Austin and Dallas people and things like that.”

“Same way in Cali,” Cali said. “People from San Francisco talk about how great it is. But people from San Diego say the same thing about their city. It’s funny. I just can’t wait to get back home.”

I didn’t have much to contribute, so I just listened. I could talk a little about how Florence, Alabama is better than Muscle Shoals, but I felt like I was a feather weight in the ring with the heavies. How do you throw names like Florence, Muscle Shoals, or Tuscumbia in there with San Fran, San Anton, Austin, and Houston?

After some logistics, I checked in. The room was…a room. It had all of the things that constitute a hotel room: four walls, a ceiling, and a floor. Oh and a bed and table with two chairs. I mean it was only 55 bucks. I’m not complaining. That said, they should take the money and buy a new air conditioner. I’m pretty sure the motor on this one burned out in 1984 and they replaced it with one from a weed-eater. I’m awful at shopping.

I took a nice long nap, showered, and got ready to go to town. The Clerk gave me some tips for some places downtown. When we got on the subject of blues and jazz, he described me as seeming like “one of those guys.” There was no accusation in his voice.

I roamed up 6th street for a little while and finally decided on the Blind Pig Pub. There was a couple at the bar–a bleach blondie and an already drunk guy covered in tattoos under a gray tank-top with a flat bill.

“Welcome to Austin’s best gay bar,” he said as soon as I stepped up to the bar. I wasn’t sure what he was getting at. We’ll call him Tat.

“It’s a gay bar,” Tat said with a smile that said, “You’re supposed to laugh at that because it’s really not a gay bar, but that’s all I can come up with to mask my disappointment that my girlfriend is the only other female here.”

I laughed. Sort of. And sat down at the bar. Don’t get me wrong, I wasn’t being outright standoffish. I just didn’t know what to say. I ordered a pint of locally brewed stout and watched the Olympics. I started making conversation with the bartender. He was a baseball player at University of Texas at Austin and a really great guy to talk to. Then, true to form, Tat asks him for a cell phone charger and tosses his iPhone. Right into my beer. For a second, I didn’t move. The iPhone just soaked in the beer for a minute while I was thinking about whether or not I would get another beer. Priorities.

Tat bought me another beer. Good guy. Oh, and his phone was okay. The bartender and I fell into conversation about Austin. He reaffirmed what Clerk had said earlier. Texas has a nationalistic pride that everyone knows about. Yes, nationalistic because Texas is still so very independent in attitude. But inside of Texas, each region has its own pride and an almost elitist view of itself. Since they are all part of the cohesive whole that is Texas, it presents itself almost as camaraderie between team-mates on a football team. This is evident in the fact that several Olympians are from Texas, and a lot of them are winning gold. The whole state is taking pride in the fact, but each region the competitor comes from is definitely using their bragging rights.

We talked for a while about the Olympics and how awesome the gymnastics competition is (this is a recurring theme all over the world). Conversation, as it does, waned and I moved on. I was exhausted. I popped into one more bar called Lovejoy’s. There were a bunch of steam-punkish hipsters grooving out to a guy doing some crazy vinyl mixing. It was dark and crowded and a really great scene. If I had been more energetic, I would have stayed. But as it was, I went back to the hotel, cranked the weed eater, and crashed into bed.

“T for Texas” Part 1

 I’m having a hard time writing about Texas. I feel like there are so many different directions I could go. If I wait much longer, there’s going to be too much to write about.

I can be a sucker for gimmicks. I often want to or do stop at tourist traps just to see how painfully cheesy they are. So when I realized I’d be going through Texarkana, I was kind of excited. Texarkana is one of those special places in the world that exists on the border of two regions. Yeah, I know, I could get out of the car at the border of any state and theoretically stand in both states. But they have State Line Drive: an entire road running through the middle of the city that separates Arkansas and Texas. It’s also a freeway.

How… is that even possible? No cute white line running right up to city hall with footprints to stand in on both sides? No image of the states bisected with two halves you can stand between? What a waste of a valuable resource! What a down right shame that such an easy target is not being exploited. So many middle-aged parents with mid-cankle socks and Acapulco shirts are denied the paternal right to force their kids to smile and make some comment to them about being in two places at once. I’d pay good money for that kind of ride. I should write a letter.

Here is what I was looking for. In all its bypassed glory. (Photo cred: arktimes.com)

What I didn’t realize is that it actually exists. It actually goes right up to the post office–a nice white line and everything. Me in my hurried state didn’t take the time to look for it, and now I will forever be haunted by myself and others for missing such an obvious landmark.

Well I was in two places at once for about .73 of a second. And, by God, that .73 of a second was amazing. I can’t even imagine being at the Four Corners of New Mexico, Colorado, Arizona, and Utah. Pure ecstasy.

It was bizarre entering Texas. It’s as if the state waits for you to come, and when you arrive it jumps out from behind the door, yells “Yeehaw!” and slaps you in the face with bridle reins soaked in whiskey, sorrow, and dip spit. Except more endearing. Immediately on passing State Line, the radio began “State Line Saturday Night” which played two songs, back to back, glorifying in the Thing that is Texas. I wish I could remember what they were, but they were about as Texan as you could want them to be.

I moved on because the sun was going down, but I started thinking about how I wanted to turn back to Texarkana and imbibe in State Line Saturday Night. I wonder what kind of revelry happens on the border of two worlds on a weekend. No time for that yet. Be steadfast.  Resolve.

I blazed for Dallas. I was hoping to get as far as Waco, sleep outside the city, go to church in Waco Sunday morning and then be in Austin by noon or so. The plan worked reasonably well, except that I was ridiculously tired after bypassing Dallas. I have this nasty habit of nodding off while driving. It’s true what studies say: driving while sleepy is worse than driving while intoxicated. I’ve learned to listen to my body and get off the road at the first sign of a drooping eyelid. Well maybe not the first sign. I’m also stubborn. Night driving is great when there is a destination in mind or a deadline. The only deadline was my desire to get officially started on my trip, so I chose to pull off the road.

My first choice of lodging was a Baptist church parking lot. I wanted to just take a little nap, drive further, nap, repeat. I couldn’t get comfortable. I felt restless and painfully conspicuous in the middle of an empty parking lot on a back-road somewhere between Lancaster and Waxahachie. Steinbeck made it seem so easy. He would just pull Rocinante off the road or up to a lake, climb in the back, and commence to snoozing. He relied on the decency of humanity, his own foolhardiness, and the fact that he was a harmless, charming 60-year-old who travelled with a poodle. I couldn’t get over the fact that if a cop stumbled upon me—a gangly, long-haired, hippy type who can still wait a couple of days between shaves—he wouldn’t be too kind or understanding. Lest we forget, he would be a Texan Cop—only a few shades removed from those that once ran in the wild with Chuck Norris. I moved on down the road singing country radio songs I didn’t know way up past the top of my lungs and slapping myself. When I found a rest stop, I tucked myself between two semis, climbed in the back, and went to sleep.

I realized something upon waking Sunday morning I should have thought about: I stank. I know the church is supposed to be forgiving and welcoming, but I didn’t want them to be subjected to my odorous musk. I was thinking of them, really. Plus I woke up early and would have to wait a few hours for church. I decided to drive on so I could get settled–and showered–in Austin.