Canton, TX

Sunday turned out to be warm and sunny, after several days of cool-ish weather and rain, so I decide to head about 90 miles out of Dallas to Canton, where I'd been told the "mother of all flea-markets" (car-boot sales) was on this weekend. All I knew was that it was in Canton, which was somewhere on Route 20 heading east.

So I put in my new CD (Mondo Soukous), wound down the windows, and cranked up the volume. I don't understand how the African continent, with such a troubled history, is able to produce music like soukous, which is so joyous and uplifting it always makes me want to stop the car, get out, and dance on the verge. Anyway, with sunlight and a warm breeze streaming through the window, soukous belting from the speakers, settled down at 70 on the Interstate, it feels good to be alive.

Knowing how good the average Texan is at giving directions, I eventually chicken out and pull off at a gas station to buy a map, just in case I'm headed in the wrong direction - this is purely a precaution, and I'm bound to need the map sometime anyway - right? As I enter, the checkout girls are speaking Spanish to each other, but, as I approach, they seem to sense that I don't, and address me in English. I fork over my $5 for the map, but take the opportunity to ask if I'm on the right road for Canton. "Ay, Maria, do ju know where is Canton?". She doesn't, and clearly neither of them has ever heard of it. I'm rescued by a scrawny, scruffy guy in the next checkout line.

At this point, an aside: this guy has on a black T-shirt that says something like "Reality is for people that can't handle drugs", and a black baseball cap that says quite clearly "POLICE". I have no reason to doubt that this is true, and here's why: in the States, there are several layers in the police hierarchy. At the federal level, the best known "police" are the FBI - they're obviously the cream of the crop; at the state level, you most commonly encounter State Troopers, who despite often being quite malicious, are impeccably turned out; then at the city level are the local police, who are responsible only for one particular city; below them are the township police, whose bailiwick is a single town within the city limits. Notice we're going down the food chain here, with IQs and dress-sense to match. So this guy is very likely to be an (off-duty) township policeman.

"Yeah, Canton", pronounced totally differently to the way I said it (my glottal stops obviously way out of whack), " - take twenny east, s'about exit five hunnerd twenny sump'n, 'bout thirdy mile". I thank him, and take him at his word. The map sits unopened on the passenger seat, and I'm back on the highway watching the buzzards cruising the central reservation. Think about it - there's a 30 yard wide grass-covered patch that's hundreds of miles long, containing a trapped microcosm of rodent life. The choice is buzzard-food or road kill.

Just before I get to Canton, and apart from yet another camel farm that doesn't phase me any more, I come across the "Billy the Kid Museum". But hold on, Billy the Kid is New Mexico, not Texas. Of course, I can't resist. It's $1 for adults, and completely unstaffed. A little cheesy, but it claims that Billy the Kid actually lived until a ripe old age and died in 1950. If you don't believe me, take a look at http://www.billythekid1950.com. For such wide open spaces, there sure are some creepy corners in this state.

Canton flea market is truly big - 5 acres of stalls (that's faaahv acres, which is a lot of crap to sift through to get to the good stuff). But I succeed in finding some good stuff (well, I think it's good stuff - whoever threw it out probably doesn't agree), including a pen for Gerry and gifts for the kids, and head back to the hotel.

On the way, I stop off at "Kiss My Ribs", a real Texas BBQ place. It's just a roadhouse in the middle of nowhere, really, advertising "BBQ + Elvis + Ribs + Blues + Pork". I don't normally stop at these kind of places, for fear of coming out with more than I went in with, if you get my drift, but I'm glad I did. I explained that I'd never had real Texas BBQ before, and asked what I should order. I was the only customer in the place. I had iced tea from a big plastic urn, potato salad, coleslaw, beans, and almost more pork ribs than I could eat for $8. The meat simply fell off the bone, and was delicious. Vickie serves behind the counter, and husband Mike cooks the ribs - the secret is in cooking them veeeeeery slowly. I said I'd come back, and bring my wife, and then remembered that Val is now a veggie. "Don't worry about that", said Vickie, "we also do baked potatoes, with or without meat - we'll fix her right up".