Corpus Christi

Corpus Christi is about 400 miles south of Dallas – about 6 hours drive – on the Gulf Coast. Well ... the main part of Corpus Christi is not on the Gulf coast, because it is protected from the Gulf of Mexico by the 200 square miles of Corpus Christi Bay, behind the barrier islands of Padre Island and Mustang Island.

Pelicans "cleaning up"

Rust bucket!

I didn't realize, when I booked the hotel, that it was the tail end of Spring Break – the traditional time when American high-schoolers head for the shore and anywhere that will offer sun, parties, booze, and a generally unfettered lifestyle. Fortunately, the only effect on me was rather more traffic than I had anticipated.

Corpus Christi harbor

USS Lexington

I drove down on Friday, leaving Dallas at around 9am, and getting to my hotel around 5pm – slightly longer than Google maps had predicted, but I did stop once or twice along the way. After a day's travelling, I felt like a nice steak, and getting to bed. A quick search on the web (I had to carry my laptop with me because it's my week to provide “support” for the system I'm working on) revealed a nearby steakhouse with reasonable reviews. I won't name it, but don't go there – a pile of iceberg lettuce, two slices of cucumber, and a sliver of tomato does not, in my book, constitute a salad. The steak was ok, and the price was not exorbitant, so I was disappointed, but not too unhappy.

The following morning, I headed for the downtown area, because I'd read in a hotel guide book that a boat tour of the bay could be found at “the People St T”. As an aside, when I called the hotel for directions, they told me to take the SPID – once you know that this is the local abbreviation for the South Padre Island Drive, it's easy. Similarly, if you know that the People St T is a T-shaped marina located where People St meets the water, things make a lot more sense.

The marina was fascinating. I don't know what it is about shoreline communities, especially in the warmer climes, but they all have a similar atmosphere. I'm thinking of Miami, and the Keys, of Marina Del Ray in Los Angeles, of several places in the Caribbean, and even of the New Jersey Shore. Casual, relaxed, slow – call it what you will. You can tell the local vehicles in Corpus Christi – they're covered in a fine film of salty dust, and instead of “cow-catchers” and gun-racks, they have a rack at the rear to hold a cooler-chest and fishing gear. There's no point in trying to fight this, and nobody does.

When I arrived at the T, it was easy to find a parking space. It filled up relentlessly during the course of the day, but, when I arrived, it was mostly locals (predominantly Hispanic) buying fish from the boats that had recently docked. Pelicans and black-headed gulls swarmed around to clean up the remains.

The boat trip took about an hour, and cruised around the bay, including a close-up view of the USS Lexington. It wasn't crowded, and it was as much fun people-watching as it was seeing the shoreline from a distance. I'd guess that 75% of the people on board were Hispanic families – everyone else was probably already at the beach.

After the boat trip, I had lunch at Landry's Seafood House – a famous chain of seafood restaurants. It's so popular that it suffers the fate of so many large restaurants. If you've ever eaten at Schmidt's on Charlotte Street in London, you'll know what I mean – it was obviously once very good, but quality doesn't scale very well. The menu was extensive, but the service was slow (I had Cuban shrimp with polenta fries, washed down with a Cadillac margarita).

Americans trying to teach their SUVs to swim

After seeking some advice from the Visitors' Center, I drove down Shoreline Boulevard, past houses that have to be seen to be believed, to Padre Island, where I could quickly paddle in the Gulf of Mexico. On a European beach, if it’s popular, it’s crowded with beach umbrellas, sun loungers, and glistening bodies slowly being broiled by the sun; on the Gulf coast, just about every square inch of beach is taken up by partying Spring-breakers and their SUVs. There is nowhere to walk without having to dodge the traffic (yes – this is on the beach), and certainly nowhere to be alone with your thoughts. If you don’t like crowds, if you don’t like constantly competing blaring car stereo systems, if you don’t like the thought of police cars patrolling up and down the beach, this is not the place for you. So I was glad to get back on the road (because, like everyone else, I drove down to the water's edge), along Mustang Island, past queues of cars waiting to get down to the beach via the access roads for the Saturday night festivities, to the free ferry that would take me back to the mainland to complete my trip around the bay.

St Mary's

On Sunday, I planned my return deliberately to take more leisurely back roads (Route 77), past the largest squirrel in Texas, through Taft, and the “queen of the painted churches” – an elaborate Catholic church outside Schulenburg. Catholic churches in rural Texas are somewhat unusual, and, I imagine, owe their existence to a significant German early immigrant population.

Selena

Oh, I forgot to mention Selena. Selena was a very popular Mexican-American singer (“the queen of Tejano music”) who has her roots in Corpus Christi. She died tragically in 1995, murdered by the president of her fan club. I remember hearing about it, but wasn’t aware of the huge significance to the Hispanic community – not only here, but throughout America. A memorial to her was erected at the “T”, and there is also a museum. It was difficult to squeeze in between the constant stream of latino admirers to get a photograph.

Back at the hotel, I am slightly redder than usual, in spite of the sun-block, but my toes feel definitely better for having been dipped in the Gulf of Mexico.

Aunt Aggie De's in Sinton

Taft, "Friendliest Cotton Pickin' Town in Texas"

Medical Exam

I think the insurance companies hire retired GPs as their itinerant “medical examiners”. It’s great that they come to you, though I can’t help thinking that, one way or another, you wind up paying for it.

Anyway, this morning was my turn to be examined for mortgage insurance. An elderly, wheezingly asthmatic, trousers slung loosely beneath his low-hanging gut, gentleman appeared at the door, umbrella in one hand and black plastic suitcase in the other. It was pouring with rain, and I felt slightly sorry for him, but I imagine he’s handsomely paid for a task that’s not very demanding.

First a battery of questions – my parents, my siblings, my general health, any medication, any recent doctor’s visits.

Then he conducted a fairly comprehensive exam, continuously pulling yet more instruments out of his apparently bottomless case.

Bathroom scales, to weigh me – 12st 12lbs (which doesn’t mean anything to me these days unless I convert it into 180lbs).

“Is this about the same as you weighed a year ago?”

“I don’t know – I never weigh myself.”

Then out with a grubby tape measure. Waist 36” (“It’s allowed for you to breathe in, if you like”), hips 38”. As he leaned close to me, I could smell tobacco on his clothes.

“How tall are you?”

“About 6’1” or 6’2”.”

“Hmmm …”, looking me up and down, “… I’ll give you 6’1”.”

Then the blood pressure, pulse (squinting at his wristwatch – I suppose this is not an exact science), and blowing into a tube (twice, because “most people do better the second time”) – all “within normal limits”. Of course, there was the obligatory stethoscope to listen to my chest and back – all normal.

“Now a test of manual dexterity and coordination – take this plastic tub and pee in it. Leave it in the bathroom, and I’ll test it in there”.

My aim was perfect.

Now the mouth swab – to make sure I was a non-smoker. All the time, he was complaining about excessive packaging on the disposable items, and about the inclusion of instructions with each:

“If I didn’t know how to do a blood test, I damned well shouldn’t be doing it!”

“Any operations?”

“Just tonsils when I was 7.”

“Vasectomy?”

“Oh, yes.”

“Everyone forgets that one.”

“But it was in the States, in the doctor’s surgery – not really an operation.”

Judging from his expression, that’s not normal over here.

“Oh well, prevents the worst STD – children!”

I managed to crack a smile. I suspect the same jokes are trotted out at every exam.

Then I had to lie down on the sofa, and loosen my pants. Press here, press there, “Breathe in deeply,” “Cough.” Take the pulse at my ankles.

“Have to do all this – you look as though you have good circulation, but if I don’t check, one day I’ll report good circulation to extremities, and the guy will have a wooden leg!”

Then a check of my reflexes, arms and legs.

“Well, I can’t think of anything else nasty to do to you, and everything looks ok.”

He re-packed his disheveled suitcase, hitched up his pants which were by now sliding dangerously low, slung his jacket over his arm, grabbed his umbrella, and disappeared out into the mostly abated rain.

I’m sure he’s very good at what he does, but, if I thought something might be wrong, I don’t think I’d hesitate to get a second opinion … and maybe a third.

Brad Hines

It wasn’t a busy weekend, which was a pleasant change, but I did meet a couple of people who may (one day) be really famous – I got their autographs, and their pictures.

On Saturday evening, I went to the Love and War in Texas in Grapevine, which is much closer than the Plano one. I’ve mentioned this place before – it’s a bar and grill with an outdoor patio featuring live music of (mostly) local musicians. “Texas food, Texas music”.  I was assuming that Grapevine would be a clone of Plano, but I was wrong. The building was formerly a Trail Dust Steak House, and is an acoustic disaster. The steak was fabulous, but it didn’t make up for the music (Keith Davis) being way too loud, and I left early. I bought his CD to listen to under more favourable circumstances. I wasn’t aware, until I listened to it, that he is a “Christian rock” musician. This isn’t music that appeals to me generally, but I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again – these musicians are bringing youth into the churches in a way in which we (in England) have failed dismally. They must be doing something right.

Les Crocker

On Sunday, I went top a Book Fair in Fort Worth. There were many signed or first edition books, and almost all collectible with a price tag to match, so I had to keep my eyes firmly ahead. I did spot a couple of small, self-published books called “The Vagabond Chronicles”. They were handwritten and illustrated, and only $3 apiece. When I bought them, the guy behind the counter, Les Crocker, told me that he was the author, and that they were really just a collection of musings and observations about life. A man after my own heart – and of course, I asked him to sign the books for me.

Brad Hines

On Sunday evening, I went to the Fort Worth Stockyards, to the White Elephant Saloon, a favourite haunt (and, no, I don’t spend my life hanging out in bars – I go for the music). Brad Hines, whom I’d seen before, was playing next door, at the Love Shack (just an outdoor bar, not what it sounds like!). During one of his breaks, I bought a CD, and asked if he would sign it for me. There weren’t too many people there at the time, so he came over to my table, and we chatted (“yapped”, as he would say) for a while.

Two things that are definitely not in short supply here: Texas food, Texas music!

“Remember, drinking and chasing women don’t mix – you start staggering, and they get away.”

Les Crocker

Austin yet again

Last week, I went over to Fort Worth, to my usual flea market. I don’t think I bought anything, although I was sorely tempted by the offer of $20 for “all knowledge”. At my age, I have learned that you get what you pay for, so I passed on this one. If a little knowledge is a dangerous thing, who knows how “all knowledge” might work out!

I had to change my rental car, and they gave me a Chevrolet HHR – the “HHR” stands for “Heritage High Roof”, and I think is supposed to refer to its heritage as a “mini-Suburban” (a huge gas-guzzler, designed with the “soccer Mom” in mind, that is, surprisingly, still available). The reality is that it can’t seem to make up its mind whether it wants to be an SUV or a station-wagon, has virtually no acceleration (unless you think that an upright piano has acceleration), and makes you duck in and out of it lest someone you know might see you. Fortunately, it has tiny darkened windows, so that, although it’s difficult to see out, it’s also difficult to see in.

Dancers at the Broken Spoke

It made it to Austin and back this weekend, which I suppose is all you should expect from vehicular transport. Austin is just a fun place to be – there’s always something going on, for whatever mood you are in. I stayed at the same hotel as previously, but, because it was weekend, and because the University of Texas (the Longhorns) were playing Kansas State (the Wildcats) in the first game of the season of college football, I didn’t get the luxurious room I got last time. No matter – it had a bed, a bathroom and free breakfast.

On Saturday evening, I went to the Broken Spoke – a dance hall, or honky-tonk. We don’t have anything comparable in England. It’s very basic – plastic tablecloths over functional furniture – the type of place where everything goes quiet when you walk in, because everybody knows everybody else, and you’re a new face. But if you look around, there are young couples, old couples, families with young children, and singles of every age looking for a dancing partner. The music is traditional country, and the dancing mostly swing country, but with some jitterbug and more modern thrown in. I’d like to emphasize that nobody does line-dancing – I know that’s the popular image, but that’s all it is – an image.

In the men's room at the Broken Spoke

In the men’s room,  I fed 50c into “Pandora’s Box” (“a grab bag of sexy surprises – 6 different – you’ll want them all”) three times before I decided I didn’t want them all. On the way back to the hotel I stopped off at the Magnolia Café (open 24 hours) at about midnight for a “Siam Tiger” – noodles with stir fried vegetables in a soya sauce and spicy thai sauce. I’m not used to eating so late, but it was delicious.

Art de Vitalis at the Style Station

The road back took me past the “Style Station”, off Interstate 35. I almost passed it completely, until something made me double back to check it out. It turned out to be a “retro” store, at which I bought a pair of “vintage” boots, and spent a long time chatting to owner Art de Vitalis. He’s pretty much a retired hippie, who used to play in a band, is very anti-establishment, vegetarian, and seems to know antique/vintage dealers all over the world (including one from the Portobello Road). He was truly a character, but with “more rabbit than Sainsbury’s”. The store has no running water, and electricity that probably violates every building code regulation.

They want to flatten his store to widen the highway, but he’s lived through, and participated in, protest in its many forms. Good luck to them!

Austin again

Austin is a city that, as a former hippie, I have a great affinity for. I’d booked a room, using Marriott reward points, at the Renaissance. They upgraded me to a corner room that featured a dining/work area, lounge with leather reclining chairs, bedroom with a Californian king bed, and bathroom. It was difficult not to rattle around in it!

Arriving on Friday evening, I checked in and headed downtown to 6^th Street. There was live music in every bar, though much of it was too loud (or too energetic) for me. Finally, I found Maggie Mae’s, featuring a lone singer/guitarist who appealed to me. I suspect he’s unknown at the moment, but, if that ever changes, listen out for a song called “Patience, Texas” that I requested him to repeat. He was the intro for a band that was due to start at midnight – I’m getting past staying up to listen to a band that starts at midnight, though I hate to admit it, so I didn’t get to hear them.

Breakfast Saturday morning was at the Magnolia Café on South Congress (I was collecting typical diner menus for Ben, and this is the place to go for breakfast in Austin). After that, I headed to the Colorado River to see the commemorative statue of the legendary Stevie Ray Vaughan. Lunch (because Austin, among many other things, is about eating, and enjoying eating) was at the Shady Grove Café (still collecting menus). I could easily have stayed there all afternoon, but there were people to go, places to see ☺.

After lunch, I went to the headquarters of Wholefoods Market. When I mentioned to the girls behind the cheese counter (after taking a photo that I wasn’t strictly allowed to take!) that my daughter worked at Wholefoods in Bristol, they scurried round the store to collect goodies for me to send to her. They came up with an apron, a “lemur” t-shirt (that even the people who worked in the store fought over), and wrote a lovely note to Amy.

It’s impossible to see Austin in a couple of days – the best you can do is to hit the major sights. “Sights” for me doesn’t necessarily mean the usual tourist locations. So, on to Taco Express, and then to the Broken Spoke (dance hall).

Finally, on the “scenic route” back, I stopped at the Iguana Grill overlooking Lake Travis, and listened to an hour or so of Bo Porter (who struggled to remember “Pancho and Lefty” for me, but did a great rendering), before heading back to the hotel in Dallas.

Put Austin on your list of “places to visit”.

Smokestack Restaurant, Thurber

I mentioned recently that I met Randy Brown, a “swing” country singer. His website has, among other things, a link to some of his friends, amongst whom are the Bennett family and their Smokestack Restaurant. At first glance, this seems to be nothing particularly noteworthy. If you delve slightly deeper, however, you discover that it’s located in the town of “Thurber, population 5”. It was once (around the turn of the last century) the largest town between El Paso and Fort Worth, and that’s a distance of around 600 miles, which is significant, even by Texas standards. It was a coal-mining town, owned and run completely by the coal company. As oil replaced coal as a cheaper fuel, the town declined, and has been a “ghost town” since around 1936.

Something to do while you're waiting for food

Fortunately, the town is just off Interstate-20, a major thoroughfare between East Texas and North Carolina, running for over 1500 miles and passing through Louisiana, Mississippi, Alabama and Georgia. If the restaurant had to survive catering for the 5 local residents, it would have disappeared long ago. Judging from the clientele when I was there, it is visited by truckers, tourists and locals alike. It’s a traditional diner, offering traditional diner fare, and is well-known for its “chicken fried steak”. I think I’ve explained this before, but in case I haven’t (or you have forgotten), this is steak beaten to within an inch of its life, battered and breaded, and deep fried – that is, it’s “minute steak” cooked in the southern “fried chicken” style. If you like that sort of thing, this is exactly the sort of thing you’d like. It’s served smothered with southern white gravy (which is really odd for Brits), mashed potatoes and corn (although you can substitute fried okra). It also comes with a home-cooked bread roll, which is every bit as good as they say it is. Soft drinks, as in most diners, are “bottomless” – as soon as you get halfway through, they top it up. I had lemonade. The waitresses were friendly (and I mention this only because, although this is nothing surprising here, it is strangely unfamiliar in so many places these days); to while away the time between ordering and receiving the meal, they provided a solitaire game at the table (which could be purchased – and I did – at the register) – I’m reliably informed that this is a common game here, although I’ve never encountered it before; and, as I left, the waitress offered me lemonade to go. Such hospitality is rare anywhere.

Weatherford mural

I didn’t return on I-20. I headed north until I hit 180, and then east through Mineral Springs and Weatherford to Fort Worth. Weatherford had a couple of murals on the side of a western furniture store – and, as you know, I always stop for murals! “Western” furniture is typically chunky, primitive-style, wood and leather – in keeping with the surroundings.

Even though I’ve been coming here for four years, there are still places I haven’t discovered, and they are often on the doorstep – Thurber is only about 90 minutes west of my hotel. Beyond everything else, you can’t help noticing that going south in the US is like going north in the UK – the atmosphere seems more relaxed, and the people just get friendlier.

Love & War in Texas

It was a musical weekend. On Friday evening I went to “Love and War in Texas”, a restaurant/bar in Plano that features live music on the patio (and Cowboy Church on Sunday – only in Texas would you find such duality). Houston Marchman and The Contraband were playing – I had never heard of them, but a quick google revealed that he had released 9 CDs, so that, in the words of a friend, “Sounds like he knows what he's doing, then...and that everything he does won't sound the same”. How true that was – the venue was small enough that I was able to chat with him in the bar during a break. He spent 10 years in Nashville, and then left, disillusioned, because they had such a narrow perspective of country music – in Texas, Stevie Ray Vaughan is considered “country”. He had CDs for sale (of course) and I asked him which one I should buy. They were selling all 4 currently available CDs for $30, so I bought them all. Several days (and several listening hours) later, I remain impressed.

On Saturday, after working for most of the day, I went to the movies. “The Ten” was rated a stellar 7.2/10 on IMDB – it was “Ten stories, each inspired by one of the ten commandments”, but seemed to me more like ten Saturday Night Live sketches, back-to-back. It had its moments (the highlight was possibly Winona Ryder screwing a ventriloquist’s dummy), but I wouldn’t recommend it, nor see it again.

On Sunday, after several hours at Traders Village (which I’ve mentioned before), I headed over to the White Elephant Saloon in the stockyards area of Fort Worth. There’s always live music going on there. That night it was Don Burke, accompanied by a guy who is a regular, very talented, backing guitar (and whose name I can’t recall), and fueled by beer and tequila. In the middle of one of their sets, a guy, who they obviously knew, asked if he could sing a song he’d written out on a pile of paper napkins. They agreed. I was dreading the outcome, having been at an earlier “amateur night”, but he had a powerful (perhaps a little too powerful) voice, and Don and friend improvised beautifully. It turned out the singer was a well-known local “rancher and lawyer” – the song may not have been memorable for its lyrics, but it certainly was for its delivery! Don was also accompanied by another singer, whose name I didn’t catch initially, but who obviously had a certain stage presence.

During a break, I spoke to Don. He gave me one of his CDs, and refused to accept payment. There are many people out there trying to make a living doing what they love to do – more power to them. I asked Don who the “mystery singer” was – he told me he was Randy Brown, a local guy who had a number one hit on the Swing Charts, and called him over to introduce me. The White Elephant Saloon (Amy has a t-shirt) is listed as one of the top 100 bars in the US – I can tell you why. Put it on your list of places to visit. Randy had been playing at Pearl’s, a dance hall just up the street. He’s from around here – Aledo. The music scene here is almost a victim of its own success – country music (in its many incarnations) is experiencing a revival that has been quietly going on for years. The Austin City Limits music festival is now huge – I might consider going if I thought I could get anywhere near enough to see anything.

“You call some place paradise, kiss it goodbye.”