Athens and Palestine, TX

Today I went to Athens and Palestine. No, I didn’t have access to the corporate jet, just my rented Chevy Malibu (don’t even bother asking – it’s a car, and it’s brown (oh, it has quite a kick, too – not that I care about such things …)). We should be grateful we come from a small country, so that naming towns is not really a problem. Because if you have lots of towns, you run out of decent names pretty quickly, and finish up with towns called “Mildred”, “Coffee City” and “Lollipop” – I know this because I’ve passed through all three today. The streets in Lollipop have names like Pineapple, Lime, Mint and Raspberry. And all this is true. I imagine that kids who grow up in Lollipop are scarred for life: it’s ok while you’re young and cocooned, but sooner or later you have to venture into the world outside. “Where you from?”. An innocuous question, but it’s probably been answered several times with “Lollipop”, whilst watching the questioner dissolve into helpless laughter before you figure out it’s better to just say: “Oh, a small town in Texas … errm … you’ve probably never heard of it”. By then the damage is done.

By the way, you probably already know the joke about the wagon train, back in pioneering days, that is surrounded by Indians. They circle the wagons (as you do) and manage to fight off their attackers with only one casualty; as he lies dying, surrounded by the other pioneers, he has one last request: “When you get where you’re going, please name the town after me”. “Sure we will, Mr. Buquerque”.

anyway, as you’ve probably gathered, Athens and Palestine (pronounced Palesteen) are both in north-east Texas – so is Paris, and several other similar, no doubt, but I didn’t want to go overboard. The only disadvantage of going in this direction is that you have to pass Dallas. I don’t know if there’s an architectural equivalent of dyslexia, but, if there is, the Dallas town planners suffer from it. The buildings in, say, New York City, are different, but they fit together. Dallas is an architectural rag-bag.

On the way to Athens, I picked up a hitch-hiker (I know … I shouldn’t do this sort of thing … it’s dangerous, you don’t know who they are … yada yada yada). It was very hot, and he was clean and sober. Turns out he had a mini-stroke last night, and the ambulance took him to Baylor Hospital, in Dallas (this is the best-known local teaching hospital, and has an excellent reputation). After he’d been there 5 hours, and still not been seen by a doctor, he tried to stand up, found out he could, and checked himself out. The ambulance wouldn’t take him home, so he made his own way. He’d worked for a gas company for 13 years, hurt his back, and could no longer work. He has no family that he gets on with, no plans for July 4^th, and is trying to move from a house next to the “town sweat”, where he’s kept awake at night by cop cars chasing down drunks (I hadn’t heard the expression “town sweat” before: it’s a cheap bar in the center of town). As I said, he was clean and sober; not very talkative, but pleasant when he did. I’m glad I picked him up.

You’ve heard me say before how similar American small towns are, so I don’t know really why I choose places to go to that all look the same: Arby’s, Taco Bueno, Pizza Hut, Waffle House, Jack In The Box, Churchs Chicken (no, I didn’t miss the apostrophe – they did), Ducks and Bucks Taxidermy. Well, ok, you don’t see the last one quite so often, but it’s not unusual. But, of course, it’s the journey, and not the destination. The countryside in that area is beautiful. The main roads are similar to the southern part of the Garden State Parkway, near Cape May: wide tree-lined grass verges, green and voluptuous. The lakes (and I passed several) are truly Texas-sized – more like mini-oceans, with the opposite shore almost on the horizon. At this time of year, the roadside is peppered with firework stands (they’re there all year, but only allowed to be open for two weeks before July 4^th and New Year).

I stopped at the East Texas Arboretum and Botanical Gardens. There was only one other car in the parking lot. It was delightful to walk the forest trails – almost like being back at home, except for the heat and the constant backdrop of cicadas. The other car belonged to a young couple that I thought exercised considerable restraint until after I left, though it was obviously difficult. Perhaps they couldn’t afford to rent a room.

I stopped for lunch at a small roadhouse between Athens and Palestine: Judy’s Kountry Kitchen, in the city of Poyner (pop. 237). I know – hardly a city. Sticky plastic tablecloths that certainly discourage elbows on the table. I ordered sweet iced-tea, catfish, fries and pinto beans – in Texas, you get what we call baked beans at BBQ joints; elsewhere, it’s pinto beans. The waitress offered tartare sauce, and I acquiesced. It came in a refillable squeezy bottle that was also sticky – sticky from the many hands that had squeezed it before mine. Luckily, I have a strong constitution.

On the way back, as I approached Dallas, I noticed a night club set back off the highway: “Stallions. Ladies only Wednesday – Sunday”. I wonder what kind of club that is?