Antique Store

It’s strange to find an old-fashioned antique store in the middle of a modern indoor mall, but there it was. I’m physically incapable of passing (in a vehicle or on foot) an antique store, a book store or a flea market, without looking in – so I did.

As I approached the counter to pay for my purchases, an old guy with more gaps than teeth suddenly appeared. “This is a good price”, he said, thumbing through the pages of the book. “Look at those pictures – Norman Rockwell. They’re hard to find.”

“It’s a gift for my wife – I’m taking it back to England.”

“She’ll love it … so what are you doing over here?”

I explained my curious lifestyle: 2 weeks in England, 3 weeks in Dallas, which has been going on for over three years now.

“Does she miss you?”

“Yes, I think so.”

“Do you miss her?”

“Yeah.”

He took my money, and walked round to my side of the counter, where there was a bench seat. He sat down, and, looking up at me, said, “So, you’re from England. Tell me what you think of the war in Iraq, and then I’ll tell you what I think.”

There was a time when this would have been a dangerous question to answer – religion, politics, and all that. Everyone should respect other people’s views, but not everyone does. It doesn’t seem to be so much a problem any more. “I think Blair and Bush should be stood up against the wall and shot.”

He smiled, and replied, “I saw a cartoon the other day of Bush and Cheney behind prison bars – that’s where they belong. Do you know how much money we’ve spent in Iraq?”

“Not exactly, but I know it’s a lot.”

“Enough to keep Social Security funded for the next 75 years. And we’ve killed more innocent men, women and children than Saddam ever did. We should put him back in power, because he can control them, and we sure as hell can’t!”

The conversation was actually much longer than this, but I’ve edited out all but the highlights. His was an interesting suggestion that hadn’t occurred to me before. It’s too outrageous to work – or is it? Before we could explore the topic, another customer appeared at the counter.

“I’m sorry – money calls. Here our friendship must end. Nice talking to ya.”

Garvin church

Garvin cemetery

At this point I felt tired of being in the city, surrounded by noise and people all the time, and wanted to get out into the country. So I bought a CD of “The Wailin’ Jennys” – a Canadian folk/country three-girl band that I’d just heard on “A Prairie Home Companion” on the radio (still going, and the way radio shows used to be) and headed out of town on Highway 114. As soon as I had thrown off the shackles of suburban Fort Worth, I turned off on a dirt track towards “Garvin United Methodist Church”. The congregation had long since disappeared, but I parked the car in the shade, and sat under an old cedar tree (you can see it in the picture) in the middle of the cemetery. It was warm and sunny, with a faint breeze on my face, and the only sound was the rustling of the leaves in the nearby trees. Looking at faded and crumbling tombstones of long-dead (and probably founders) of Garvin is a humbling experience – “Dear Clarance (sic) you was always Loving and Faithful”. I don’t know how people in these rural communities survive – where they work, what they do, how they have fun – but one day maybe I’ll knock on a door and hope someone friendly answers.

Decatur

On the way back, I stopped at Decatur – you know, “Historic Downtown Decatur”. Nothing much going on, nothing much to see, other than an interesting (from an architectural viewpoint) City Hall, and a few stalwarts still hoping that Walmart won’t completely destroy their livelihood.

By the way, I hope my politics don’t offend you. If you don’t agree with them, that’s ok – I probably don’t agree with yours either.    ;-)

Deep Ellum

When I was a teenager I had a paper round – delivering newspapers twice a day, before and after school, except on Sundays, when there was only one delivery (and, thankfully, although Sunday newspapers were somewhat larger than usual, they had not yet reached anything close to current proportions, where you need a couple of friends to help you carry it to and from the car). I also delivered magazines, which was probably my first introduction to some of the racier ones. But I was more fascinated by a particular American music magazine – you will have figured out by now that my delivery often took longer than it should have done had I not stopped occasionally to verify the contents of my deliveries. I can't remember the name of the magazine now, but it was mostly concerned with folk music, which was all the rage at the time. I read material about Odetta and the Grand Ole Opry, which meant little to me, but felt somehow magical.

Garland Opry

So, when I discovered that nearby Garland provided a show (the “Garland Opry”) every Saturday at 7:30pm, this was my chance to find out what “Opry” was all about. If you look online to Wikipedia, (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Opry) you will find that:

“An opry is generally an establishment that features live country music, the most famous example being the Grand Ole Opry, but it could be something as simple as the local honky tonk. The term is generally restricted to the southern United States.

The Saturday night opry is a Texas tradition. The opry provides a forum for new country music performers. In Texas the opry is an informal venue suitable for families. The local opry provides a friendly, non-threatening environment for amateur performers.

The Garland Opry claims to be the The Longest, Continuous Running Opry In The Great State Of Texas.”

The Wikipedia entry is entirely accurate. It's country music, it's amateur performers (some of whom may may not be completely in tune, but who am I to say?), but it is undoubtedly a valuable proving ground for aspiring musicians. Live performances – musical, theatrical, or whatever – have always enchanted me, and I'm happy to see community spirit alive and well, if not ubiquitous. Spilling out at the end of the performance into the still warm evening air of the square in downtown Garland, there were several pickup bands, playing anything from bluegrass to blues to country, as they do every Saturday night. It's somehow strange to find this bucolic atmosphere so close to the Dallas Metroplex, but I, for one, am glad to see old traditions continuing.

Deep Ellum graffiti

Psycho Clown Tattoo

The night was still young, and since I was so close, I headed into an area of Dallas called Deep Ellum. This area has a long history of association with the music scene, from blues (Blind Lemon Jefferson and Bessie Smith, to name but two, were regular performers) through to punk (The Dead Kennedys, The Meat Puppets), but its popularity declined in recent years, mainly due to increased crime rates. “Deep Ellum Blues” advises visitors: “When you go down to Deep Ellum, keep your money in your shoes”. I didn't go quite that far, but I didn't take my wallet with me – strictly cash. The area seems to be popular again, to the extent that the streets – deserted by day – are closed off at night, and the only way in is to park at the perimeter and walk, or take a shuttle bus, in. It's packed on a Saturday night, with everything from goths to yardies to hippie-throwbacks, and the music is similarly varied. I chose The Bone (http://www.thebone.com) to stop for a beer.

I hooked up with a friendly bunch of Aussies, on their way from home via Hawaii and California, across to Miami, before heading to Europe. I had a great time ... up to a point. And I say that not because there came a point where I wasn't having fun, but there certainly came a point where I can't remember whether I was having fun or not. I feel compelled to say that, at least on my part, there was no excessive drinking, and definitely no drugs, involved. But the next thing I remember is being in my car (which I'm certain I didn't drive) in Fort Worth (which is at least 30 miles away) at 3am, in a neighborhood that, although deserted, did not strike me as particularly salubrious, opposite a tattoo parlor (closed by this time) named Psycho Clown Tattoo. I've never been in this position before, but I can tell you that a number of questions run rapidly through your mind – I'm sure you can imagine. But I was unharmed, nothing had been stolen from me, and I had no lingering headache or hangover. I did, however, have a tattoo. I know this because I didn't have one before, and there were instructions for the “aftercare of a tattoo” on the seat next to me. (I had previously imagined that you got a tattoo, and that was it – not so. It apparently requires frequent washing with antibacterial soap, application of moisturizer, and no exposure to excessive soaking or sun for up to a month.)

The preceding paragraph is complete fantasy, and purely for literary effect, although the tattoo is real.

And no, you can't see it.

Gruene Hall

So, what’s happening in Flatonia, TX? Not very much it seems … but I’ll come back to that later.

"NO ONE CAN BEAT OUR MEAT"

Gruene (pronounced “Green”) has been “gently resisting change since 1872”. Gruene Hall (http://www.gruenehall.com/) is the oldest dance hall in Texas – and when I say “dance”, I don’t mean line-dancing (despite popular opinion elsewhere, I haven’t seen anywhere round here where they do that – it’s “swing” dancing, which is much more couple-oriented). Having said that, I’m not sure too much actual dancing goes on these days – it’s more of a venue for country music. George Strait (and if you don’t know who he is, it says more about the lack of diversity in your musical eclecticism than it does about one of country music’s biggest stars) got his start there with the Ace in the Hole band, and numerous other great artists have performed on that stage. If you remember the movie “Michael”, with John Travolta starring as a “fallen angel”, you might recognize the dance hall scene as having been shot there.

Gruene is about 4 hours drive south of Dallas, and this weekend corresponded with “Market Days” – the third weekend every month they host craft and food stalls – so it seemed like a good time to make the trip. Starting straight after breakfast, I drove all the way there without stopping (although on the way through Austin, I followed an interesting truck – the picture is not of the best quality because it was taken through the windscreen at 75mph – I didn’t dare get any closer!), checked into my hotel, and went in search of food.

Rudy's menu

I found Rudy’s – a convenience store/gas station/bar-b-q place. Their motto, on all the employees t-shirts, is “I didn’t claw my way to the top of the food chain … to eat vegetables”. Bar-b-q places are typically very basic, and Rudy’s was no exception: plastic tablecloths, plastic cutlery, simple menu, beer or iced tea, a meal ordered at the counter and eaten on the table on a piece of (supplied) wax paper rather than a plate, and “your mom ain’t here, so clean up after yourself”. I ordered a half-pound of brisket, potato salad and pinto beans, and was more than happy.

Gruene itself was more crowded than I would have liked – as the Eagles have already said: “Call someplace Paradise, kiss it goodbye”. For one thing, it is in the heart of a popular watersports area, so that there is plenty of boating, fishing, swimming and tubing in the Guadalupe or Gruene rivers, as well as surrounding lakes. Almost every convenience store advertises “Beer, Ice, Bait”, and the roads are clogged with participants. If you’re a Brit, you may think of Texas as mostly desert, but this is very far from the truth. Certainly West Texas has a harsher landscape, but most of the rest, except during very dry summer months, can be quite verdant.

Gruene Hall ...

... and the men's room!

I checked out Gruene Hall during the afternoon, when it’s just a regular bar with live music. It has unfinished floor boards, which don’t seem well-suited to a dance floor. There is no air conditioning, but ceiling fans circulate what air there is (yesterday was over 100ºF (38ºC)), and the “windows” have no glass, but rather are screened with fine mesh reinforced with chicken wire, and are battened with wooden boards that can be raised/lowered in hot weather. The roof is corrugated tin, and swathes of foam filled sacking hang from it, presumably to improve the acoustics. Old signs, probably for advertisers long since disappeared, line the walls: the White Comb barber shop, Blue Bonnet Cleaners & Tailors (“we deliver”), Ed Moeller’s Café, and the Purity Bakery. I’m not sure they serve anything except beer – if they do, they probably look at you funny when you ask for it. And it’s not in glasses either: you drink out of the bottle, and when you’re done, you put the empty bottle back into an empty case. Periodically they replace full (of empty bottles) cases with empty ones, take the full ones to recycling (or trash – who knows?) and the circle is complete.

In the evening, the “doors” opened at 8pm, the support band (the Sidehill Gougers, whose lead singer I thought looked incredibly like Lara in real life, though not so much in online photos at http://www.sidehillgougers.com/) started at 9pm, and the main act (Stoney La Rue – no, I haven’t heard of him either) at 10:30pm. The support band were great. The place filled up with people getting steadily more drunk, and who seemed to think it was a better idea to shout loudly enough that they could hold some sort of conversation with the person next to them than to go outside, where they could converse normally. I’d say that it was just me getting old and intolerant, but I think I’ve always been the same – either listen to the music, or go somewhere else and stop interrupting (these are not exactly the same words that were running through my mind, of course). I left before Stoney La Rue came on – the Sidehill Gougers were good enough for me.

Flatonia - the offices of the Flatonia Argus are on the right

Flatonia? Ah, yes … Flatonia. Flatonia is a DQ/DG town (Dairy Queen, Dollar General and a gas station) that doesn’t seem to have a lot going for it. But it does have a local newspaper: the Flatonia Argus. I picked up a copy of Volume 132, number 33 – August 17^th, 2006 from the gas station for 50c, so I’m pretty well up on the significant events in the town this week. The usual masthead, in addition to the name, has Old and New Testament verses for this week. Haley Alexis was born on July 31^st, daughter of Heather Taranowski; the grandparents and great-grandparents are given credit, but there is no mention of a father. But well done, Dr. Ann Trevino, who delivered her. The Two Sisters Café serves “good old-fashioned hamburgers, homemade stew, chili, soup & gumbo”, and, under the classifieds, is looking for “mature help”. For lunch on Wednesday, the local schoolchildren have “Chili Cheese Dogs, Oven Fries, Carrot Sticks with dip, Fruit Cup” – I suppose the carrot sticks are a start, but I think I know what will finish up in the bins out back. Kassi is wished a “Happy Belated 6^th Birthday” by her family (is the fact that the family missed her birthday something they would want to go public with?). 83 year old Ernest Hensel fell off his tractor while hauling a bale of hay, and the back tyres ran over his legs (no! – stop laughing, this could be serious). A “two story (sic) farm house with large living room, 3 bedrooms, 2 full baths, extra room that could be a 4^th bedroom, family sized eat-in kitchen with tons of cabinets, pool, 1 car garage, pool (sic – I think there’s only one), brick bar-b-que” is for sale for $65,000. The 2005 Fair Queen, Beth Johnson, will be relinquishing her title to one of the 2006 hopefuls – there are photos, and, without wishing to be harsh, I think most of them have been entered by their mothers. Certainly, the representative of the Optimist Club has earned her membership. If you want to shop at the nearby Brookshire Brothers supermarket, boneless rump roast is on sale at $1.99 (£1.04) per pound, a six-pack of Corona will cost you $6.49 (£3.42), a 12oz can of Spam is $1.97 (£1.03), and three 12pk Diet Pepsi’s are $10 (£5.26).

And that’s all the news from Flatonia!

Mexico

“Get your motor running
Head out on the highway
Looking for adventure
And whatever comes our way”

I don’t think Steppenwolf were thinking of an air-conditioned Chevy Malibu, but the sentiment’s the same. I know I’ve said this before, but put me in a car in Texas, find a good country radio station and a highway out of Dallas, and I’m a happy man. I have pictures of the landscape, but I’m not including them here, because my meagre photographic skills cannot possibly do justice to the awe-inspiring, indescribable, vastness. It is alternately ranch, arable, scrub and desert, but I never tire of it, even after hundreds of miles.

Black vultures

This weekend, I headed south-west to Mexico, but not to see Mexico – rather to see a border town (actually two border towns – one on the American side, the other Mexican).

So I headed south through Waco, Austin and San Antonio, and then west through Uvalde to Del Rio in Val Verde county. Apparently, in south Texas, they don’t have to bother collecting road-kill – the black vultures take care of it. This far south, there are few cattle ranches; they mostly breed deer and goats, which is interesting, because you rarely see either on the menu.

The trip is over 400 miles, but took about 7 hours. Since I’d hit the road at 7:30am, I arrived in plenty of time to cross the border (having first checked that I’d be able to get back ok – more on that later …) and spend a few hours in Acuna , Coahuila. You can’t take a rental car into Mexico without special arrangement, so I parked at a convenience store close to the border ($2 for the day!), and crossed the “International Bridge” on foot – it’s not that I’m too mean to pay for a taxi, but rather that I prefer to walk (for the same reasons that I prefer to drive rather than fly). It’s interesting that the toll to go to Mexico was 75c, and nobody bothered to check my passport, whereas the return toll was 30c, and US Immigration grilled me for 25 minutes (again – more on that later).

The bridge was about 1km long, but the temperature was in the mid-90s, so I was glad to have taken a bottle of water with me. Acuna was, I’m sure, not representative of Mexico, but more representative of a Mexican border town. I’d expected lots of cantinas where I could get something to eat – in fact, it was more tacky gift shops and “Ladies Bars”. Now, I’m not naïve, but I really thought that “Ladies Bars”, because it’s not an expression I’ve come across before, might be some cultural thing where women could go to have a drink without being bothered by unwelcome attention. Again, more on that later.

Fruit stand on Acuna Street

Acuna Street

But I found a restaurant, and ordered the “Mexican Plate” – a sampler dish, not because I’m not familiar with Mexican food, but because I wanted to see how it compared with the Dallas versions. Later, I found a juice stand that had my favourite Mexican rice/fruit drink, horchata.

 I was expecting to encounter much more begging than I did – in fact there was very little, though the outlying areas are obviously very poor. As it got towards early evening, and bouncers started appearing outside the “Ladies Bars”, I realized what they were. And as guys started following me and asking: “Senor, are you looking for anything in particular? Perhaps a woman?”, I though it was time to head back Stateside.

On the US side, Immigration kept me in a waiting area (where I was the only white face) for close to half an hour (asking me how long I was going to be in the US, how often I came, who I worked for, the address of my hotel in Dallas, etc.) before they let me through. I think they’re getting a little out of control – especially since, after being on the road north the following day for about half an hour, there was a compulsory stop at a “Homeland Security” checkpoint where they once again checked my passport (and this is within the US – goodness knows what would have happened if I’d just been driving round the area without credentials) and check out the contents of the car.

Me on the border

The Rio Grande

Back at the hotel, the following morning, at breakfast, I asked one of the staff, Gabriella, if there were any local sights I should see before leaving. The hotel has only been open a couple of months (it’s part of the Hilton chain) but they evidently aren’t inundated with tourists, because, not only did she have to think a lot about this, but, after she was done, and I suggested they might consider providing a leaflet for visitors, she rushed off to share the idea with the manager. Anyway, she came up with quite a few, including the fact that the movie “Desperado”, starring Antonio Banderas (ok – I have female readers attention!) and Salma Hayek (oh – now the guys too!) was filmed downtown.

But I decided on visiting Lake Amistad. Apparently this is fed by the Rio Grande, and the dam provides an alternate crossing point. I stopped at an Information Center on the way, discovering that the bridge didn’t open until 10am, so that I had an hour to kill. I spent it chatting to Kit and Eric, who were on duty there. I told them how I’d planned to travel back to Dallas via a different route, and Eric advised me of places to stop along the way. By 10am I was at the bridge, found that immigration is a lot less strict, and will let you, without unnecessary formality, stand in the middle and straddle the border. A passing cyclist helped me to capture the moment.

San Angelo

My journey back took me through Sonora and San Angelo, which has one of the most attractive Visitor Information Centers I’ve ever seen, with wonderful statues of the city’s founder’s wife, and her patron saint, Santa Angela, overlooking the Honcho River.

Beer and Feed!

Just after Sonora I stopped at the Sutton County Steakhouse, which, according to Eric, does the best Chicken Fried Steak he’s ever tasted. I should perhaps explain Chicken Fried Steak, since it’s a bit of a Texan thing – it’s steak, pounded to within an inch of its life, hand-rolled in breadcrumbs and batter, fried (like fried chicken) and served on a bed of gravy (that’s the white southern gravy, like you’d get for breakfast with “biscuits and gravy” – Texas has a bit of an identity crisis, in not being able to decide whether it’s really “south” or “west”). Confusingly, there is also Chicken Fried Chicken, which would elsewhere be simply Fried Chicken, were it not for Chicken Fried Steak. In any case, Eric was right – it was very good.

Oh, and I’ve included references to drive-in “beer barns” before, but this is the first one I’ve seen like this. Texans clearly take their farming and their drinking equally seriously! You gotta love it.