Eva Goes to Texas
First off, as it is the morning of Sunday, March 20th (meaning that any and all activities meant to take place on the evening of the 19th must now have occured) I would like to congratulate Dad on a job well done for the Millenium Cabernet, er, Caberet. Brew yourself a cup o' tea, throw a log on the fire to fend off the damp March weather and read a book. Alternatively, I encourage you to watch as much NCAA March Madness with your eyes closed as you see fit.
As for me, I'm in Austin for my friend Michelle's wedding. This is my first trip to the Lonestar State and every person I've told about this adventure has responded the same way,
"Eva in Texas...that's an interesting idea. Well, good thing you're starting out with Austin."
According to its billing and depending on the person talking, Austin is the Berkeley of the South, or Berkeley is the Austin of the West. It is NOT, I have been told dozens of times, like the REST of Texas. I have been told that the "Keep Austin Weird" to "W'04" bumpersticker ratio is high and the 20 year olds with shell-encrusted dreadlocks are thick on the ground. This idea of Austin as a safe haven for Deaniacs has loomed large in my consciousness over the past few years as Sophia mulled over the idea of setting up camp here. She talked enthusiastically of the tasty food and the copius live music. She painted a pretty convincing picture of Berkeley's southern outpost and I found myself looking forward to having a place to crash in Austin.
But I have to admit, I have always been dubious. Texas is huge, Austin is right smack dab in the middle. How could such an island of liberalness evolve? Once evolved, how could it persist in the face of such massive surrounding, uh, "non-liberalness?"
It was with this conflict of emotions that I set foot in Bush Country yesterday morning. Though I'd been up since 3:30 a.m., my eyes were wide open as I walked through the airport, expecting at any moment to see a bucking bronco careen around the corner with some wranglers close behind. As I walked towards baggage claim passed a couple of perfectly normal-looking airport memorabilia type stores, I start to laugh at myself. "Duh, Eva, it's not like this is a different planet. The inhabitants are still humanoid..."
Then I saw the guy in the giant black ten gallon hat, matching black boots and crisply ironed jeans held up by a belt sporting a saucer-sized silver belt buckle.
"Ah ha!" said I. "I knew it! Texans!"
As I explored around the city for the next couple of hours, I continued to play the skeptical Yankee detective, keeping a mental tally of evidence both for and against Austin's place as Berkeley's sister city. Toyota hybrid with a Human Rights Campaign sticker? One point for Berkeley. Taxodermy shop on the side of the highway with a sign declaring "The Buck Stops Here"? Score one point for Texas. Or maybe two points - there were actually quite a few taxodermy shops on my short drive out on 71 W.
Much later, after I'd witnessed my first golf ball-sized hail storm safely from inside my room at the Hampton Inn, I set off for my first wedding-related event, the rehearsal dinner at a restaurant called The County Line. The invitation said some stuff about Texas BBQ and "come hungry." I felt a true Texas experience was in my near future.
I sat at a table with my fellow Connecticut/Yale transplants as well as a number of Michelle's friends from her college days at Texas A & M. The natives took great pleasure in instructing the foreigners on the finer points of BBQ consumption and I think I did pretty well. It was noted that I had a tendency to wipe my fingers a little too frequently, a flaw detected indirectly from the lack of BBQ sauce on my beer glass. But overall I think I passed the BBQ test. I also learned that the thinly sliced beef we were eating is called brisket not flank steak, and that the bread is dark brown not because of heavy amounts of whole grain flour, but because of molasses. It was all delicious and I ate way too much.
Stuffed and happy and still covered in ribs from ear to ear, I headed back to my hotel, my mind too occupied with thoughts of brisket to care whether the muddy pickup with a fully-loaded gun rack driving in front of me was very "Berkeley" or not...
As for me, I'm in Austin for my friend Michelle's wedding. This is my first trip to the Lonestar State and every person I've told about this adventure has responded the same way,
"Eva in Texas...that's an interesting idea. Well, good thing you're starting out with Austin."
According to its billing and depending on the person talking, Austin is the Berkeley of the South, or Berkeley is the Austin of the West. It is NOT, I have been told dozens of times, like the REST of Texas. I have been told that the "Keep Austin Weird" to "W'04" bumpersticker ratio is high and the 20 year olds with shell-encrusted dreadlocks are thick on the ground. This idea of Austin as a safe haven for Deaniacs has loomed large in my consciousness over the past few years as Sophia mulled over the idea of setting up camp here. She talked enthusiastically of the tasty food and the copius live music. She painted a pretty convincing picture of Berkeley's southern outpost and I found myself looking forward to having a place to crash in Austin.
But I have to admit, I have always been dubious. Texas is huge, Austin is right smack dab in the middle. How could such an island of liberalness evolve? Once evolved, how could it persist in the face of such massive surrounding, uh, "non-liberalness?"
It was with this conflict of emotions that I set foot in Bush Country yesterday morning. Though I'd been up since 3:30 a.m., my eyes were wide open as I walked through the airport, expecting at any moment to see a bucking bronco careen around the corner with some wranglers close behind. As I walked towards baggage claim passed a couple of perfectly normal-looking airport memorabilia type stores, I start to laugh at myself. "Duh, Eva, it's not like this is a different planet. The inhabitants are still humanoid..."
Then I saw the guy in the giant black ten gallon hat, matching black boots and crisply ironed jeans held up by a belt sporting a saucer-sized silver belt buckle.
"Ah ha!" said I. "I knew it! Texans!"
As I explored around the city for the next couple of hours, I continued to play the skeptical Yankee detective, keeping a mental tally of evidence both for and against Austin's place as Berkeley's sister city. Toyota hybrid with a Human Rights Campaign sticker? One point for Berkeley. Taxodermy shop on the side of the highway with a sign declaring "The Buck Stops Here"? Score one point for Texas. Or maybe two points - there were actually quite a few taxodermy shops on my short drive out on 71 W.
Much later, after I'd witnessed my first golf ball-sized hail storm safely from inside my room at the Hampton Inn, I set off for my first wedding-related event, the rehearsal dinner at a restaurant called The County Line. The invitation said some stuff about Texas BBQ and "come hungry." I felt a true Texas experience was in my near future.
I sat at a table with my fellow Connecticut/Yale transplants as well as a number of Michelle's friends from her college days at Texas A & M. The natives took great pleasure in instructing the foreigners on the finer points of BBQ consumption and I think I did pretty well. It was noted that I had a tendency to wipe my fingers a little too frequently, a flaw detected indirectly from the lack of BBQ sauce on my beer glass. But overall I think I passed the BBQ test. I also learned that the thinly sliced beef we were eating is called brisket not flank steak, and that the bread is dark brown not because of heavy amounts of whole grain flour, but because of molasses. It was all delicious and I ate way too much.
Stuffed and happy and still covered in ribs from ear to ear, I headed back to my hotel, my mind too occupied with thoughts of brisket to care whether the muddy pickup with a fully-loaded gun rack driving in front of me was very "Berkeley" or not...
posted by Eva Marie at 8:51 AM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home