Giddy Up!

A statue in the Dallas historic district.

A big Texas moon, just risen over the long, low horizon, stared down as I sat for my ride. The moon bent its phantom head down to the great expanse. It seemed to find something interesting to watch, but what it was, and how far I’d have to ride to find it, no one can say. I’d have to imagine the answer is somewhere in the coarse, lonely song of a cow rustler, toasted over red embers, heavy with the weight of leather, stuck back in time, only a legend now.

So was the scene on a Friday night, as I sat outside the grand Gaylord Texas, an opulent conference center and hotel, with rooms the size of football fields and carpets printed with cowboy boots, belt buckles, lassos, horseshoes, lone stars, wagon wheels, yellow roses, and cattle heads - a cornucopia of Texas cliches. I was there to work through the next seven days on a wireless location-based tracking project. It was a hard engagement with long days, but the evenings (when I got them) were fine.

"Everything's bigger in Texas," goes the old adage, and upon first impressions, I would say it rings true. The first striking feature I reckoned was the landscape and the big sky. Space is the most abundant resource. Scrub trees and cedar are the only topology to the flat northern Texas plain. It’s, in fact, the small stature of the nature and scenery and the lack of contour to to the land that made Texas feel big. To put it another way, it’s less and lacking that makes Texas more. I chewed that fat all week, until my aunt (living in Ft. Worth) gave me the real low down. It can take six hours to drive across Texas, she said. From my North Carolina home, I could ride back to Ohio in that time. Texas really is big.

On the plane ride into Dallas/Ft. Worth, a white-haired, Texas man - presumably, by the accent - asked the woman occupying the aisle seat if she wouldn’t mind letting him out to use the restroom. Of course, I had to move too, being in the middle, but my participation was assumed or at least significantly less important because he never so much as glanced my way during the exchange. I’m not harboring a grudge. I just find it a potent example of western chivalry. Run over the men to beg pardon from the women. It read true to me as I spent my time engrossed in excerpts from western stories, in between winks, from a thick compilation book I purchased at the airport, chapters out of the great western novels. That night, after my ride under the big moon, I shoved the book under my belt - like a secret Colt pistol - and walked down Main Street in Grapevine, TX looking for Friday night action.

Main Street in Grapevine, TX

I went up and down the street peeking in at bars and shops, listening to the bands and the passing conversations, and taking in some local color, like a white-washed funeral coach set behind glass windows, shining in a spotlight. Across the street from the train station, I stopped when I heard strange sounds, only to realize that it was a loudspeaker blaring some old West soundscape: cows lowing, spurs jingling, cowboys yes ma'am-ing. There were shops filled with kitch, home-is-where-the-heart-is knick-knacks - things that any self-respecting cowboy would turn a blind horse's hide to. The scene seemed to parody itself. I never could tell about some things (like the garish hotel carpet, or the blaring soundscape at the train station) whether it was earnest Texas style, or some plot to make a buck.

In Dallas, Sunday night, I sat at bar near a giant eyeball - really, it's a local landmark - and listened to the white noise hiss of peppers and onions sizzling in hot oil. Texans like their food delivered hot and popping right to the table on black iron skillets, the vegetables bucking like a bronco at a hoedown. I happily imbibed myself in the charring ritual at almost every meal I took, and was quite pleased all the while, excepting my poor tongue, which took it about as well as a calf takes the branding iron. I found a Tex-Mex joint off Main Street, Esperanza’s, and made of habit of fajitas dinners there. After a few nights, the bar tender said “Hasta manana” as I settled my tab.

I have family in Ft. Worth, an aunt and uncle, and their progeny down three more generations. After a long work day Wednesday, I took a ride to their house, where I met for the first time, Chance, Lily, and Landry, and also saw cousins and second cousins for the first time in many years. I chatted briefly with my uncle, who had an unfortunate accident this past winter leaving him wheelchair bound. I ate supper with my aunt, and played Uno with Chance and Crystal. Then my aunt and I talked for an hour, or so, a little on old times we’ve shared, a little about the particulars of Texas. I was happy to get the opportunity to visit, as I’ve been thinking lately about a trip my sister and I made here more than ten years prior when she was graduating college and starting her proper military career. The trip happened before even this blog was created.

"...the Margret Hunt Hill Bridge, a single gleaming white arch..."

It was Thursday after the conference ended that I went to Dallas for a farewell visit. I started at Trinity Overlook Park, just across the river from downtown. I figured on only staying an hour or two, and being in a little rush, I rented a bike - there are so many rental bikes in that city - and rode off under the Margret Hunt Hill Bridge, a single gleaming white arch with a disorienting set of cables going off at odd angles and supporting two roadways. I went along the river path over dunes of sand where the wide gully had been filled in by some previous flood, and eventually found a pedestrian bridge that took me across the river into the historic district of West Dallas. Along the way, as I rode under the highway interchanges, I found some of the homeless of that city. Once downtown, amid the red bricked warehouses and hip cafes, I abandoned the bike and set out a foot. The streets were teeming: students, blue collars, police officers, with grackles providing a harsh, metallic backdrop to the bustle. I wound through Commerce and Main streets, ducking into a cowboy store and a coffee shop, before I spotted the Metro. When I saw that the train when out to Dallas-Ft. Worth Airport, I decided to take a ride. So, I hopped on at the West End station, and after an hour, or so, reading about Teddy Roosevelt's pursuit of the Grizzly bear, I was into a cab headed out of the airport to the Grapevine downtown for dinner, talking trains with the driver.

West End DART metro station

On Friday morning, I packed my bags and took a cab back to Main Street to pick up a last minute gift for Susan: fancy chocolate. I also grabbed a quick bite at Big Fish Bar and Grill. Then, I hit the airport, lost my passport in security, recovered it, and finally boarded. As we came into RDU, the plane came in from the west. It circled north over Falls Lake. The sky was clear and sunny, and I watched us swoop lower and lower as we turned south for the runway. The plane eventually pulled up short of the runway: too much congestion in the airport to afford a landing. So, we did it again. Before long, though, I was back at home greeting Susan and Benji, and making plans to celebrate my return with a fancy French feast in Durham.