I hear an owl, a rooster and traffic from my cozy, studio airbandb. I think those may be apt symbols for Texas, a wild and wooly place new to me. The owl represents nature; the rooster, a rural, village-like culture; and cars, progress as well as a way to get to the spread-out places. I tried like the dickens to do this trip without renting a car, but not meant to be. The guy at the rental-car counter, originally from Chicago, said: “No way, can you NOT have a car. I had a hard time when I moved here three years ago,” he said referencing the Windy City’s EL-subway.
I had planned to be with my 17-year-old on this trip, but she miscalculated prom and was invited to a special awards ceremony she could not miss. So, here I am. In Texas, Dallas to be specific, alone. It IS the lone-star state,
And I don’t mind a bit. Of course, I wanted the mother-daughter trip, but I doubt I would have tackled the hole-in-the wall taco stand [and flirted for a hot sec with the guy who wanted to buy my tacos and take me dancing] or a beer at a crazy bookstore called the Wild Detectives [we would have done coffee, but then I wouldn’t have had the privilege of sharing a beer with Jose, the bartender/barista from Peru]. And maybe not the local, Fiesta grocery catering to an Hispanic clientele or the school-uniform shop in the midst of an authentic and not-so spiffy enclave.
The trip began with a 4:15 a.m. alarm and my diligent husband depositing me off at Frontier (ok, it’s CGV, so they all pretty much share the same drop-off and terminal these days). Took five minutes to check my bag and get through TSA pre-check, which I see as pretty much white privilege. Rarely do I spot anyone of color in those lines. It feels a bit segregated to me, but the cost of flying probably eliminates the have-nots.
After walking past my gate hidden before the Subway, I stumbled into a friend, who has moved back to town. It was fun sharing an early-morning yawn. No time for a Starbucks as the place was packed and my other half had French-pressed me a decaf and had it ready in a go-cup. Yes, I know, he’s pretty special.
I whipped through DFW airport, was whisked aboard a shuttle to all car rentals – apparently they ran out of room, so all agencies are located in a new terminal just for cars about three miles away – collected my sporty Mazda and drove off to parts unknown, listening to my navigator. Until there was no guiding voice, so I pulled over to discover I couldn’t sync my phone with the vehicle’s Bluetooth. When my phone charged, there was no audio. This would not do for driving in a city foreign to me. Desperate, I simply unplugged the phone and got my audio back, hoping to have enough charge to get to Bishop Arts, just outside of downtown Dallas, near by accommodations.
First order of the day, now midmorning, was to eat tacos. I walked toward a woman in front of a Mexican restaurant and asked her for a recommendation. "Don't eat here, down that way," she pointed, to a taco stand, "Taqueria El Si Hay." With that advice I ambled down the street to a tiny walk-up joint surrounded by pick-up trucks. I asked the guy ahead of me what he was ordering. He said fajitas. I let the guy behind me go while I debated, then I ordered corn tacos with fajita (steak) and bistek (steak) because they were out of al pastor (pork). The person ahead said I'd made a good choice, but I think he would have said that no matter what. He very persistently tried to 1) buy my tacos 2) have lunch with me 3) invite me to go dancing among other things. He was amusing, not menacing. Even so, when I was able to disengage, I chose to walk a ways to find a quiet place to eat ... alone. My feast was pleasing, if a bit greasy, and topped off with a Mexican Coke. It really does taste better.
I walked the arts district, peering into a t-shirt shop, then meeting Kristen in her lovely, artistically curated gift shop, all GOOD things. She drafted a list of her favorite places – she lives downtown and loves her city – around Dallas for me on beautiful embossed stationery. “My boyfriend and I are thinking of writing a guide because we get so many requests.” I got a sneak preview. I stopped in the electric bicycle shop to enquire about a rental, was lured into Lydia’s eclectic shop by the smell of patchouli and we traded stories about the helpfulness of CBD (hemp) oil. I think it was there I saw a t-shirt that read: “I love Jesus and I like to drink.” A bit edgy and sacrilegious, but VERY human. My daughter said it sounded very Texas, which was my impression.
I eventually made my way to Wild Detectives for a restroom to wipe away the travel grime and order a coffee. Only I began conversing with Jose, the barista/bar tender and we shared local brews (his was half size since he was working). A transplant from Peru with a degree in philosophy and a local teacher-girlfriend, he imparted his local tourism knowledge, pushing the Kimball Art Museum in Ft. Worth. “You walk in and see the Old Masters and Picasso. No on believes Texas has that kind of culture, like New York.” Apparently, there’s an entire cultural corridor in Ft. Worth, more of Old Texas with this exception, Jose said. Another customer, visiting from Brazil, overheard and highly recommended not only the Kimball (designed by Louis Kahn), but the Amon Carter Museum designed by Philip Johnson and American Art and the Modern Art Museum of Ft. Worth, designed by Japanese architect Tadao Ando. He delighted in their exteriors as well as their collections and seemed to be an architecture geek.
I still had time to kill before my rental was ready, so walked to a more authentically Hispanic, less gentrified, section of the area, as recommended by Jose. So many glamorous dresses filled little shops, tucked beside mini mercados stuffed with piñatas and auto-insurance and medicare/caid-assistance businesses. I stopped in a consignment shop because I always like to see what the local treasures are, and met a young woman from Guatamala, a preschool teacher with a very sick seven-year-old. A bright red, wingback rocker tempted me, except that I couldn’t imagine the hefty baggage fee Frontier would charge. I was mesmerized by Levine’s, an old-school department store, offering rack after rack of school and work uniforms and every sort of Levi style ever conceived. There was a platoon of navy blazers embroidered with school names. I asked the clerk if there were a lot of private schools. Charters, he corrected me. I ended my visit at Fiesta, the local, large grocery, perusing the exotic fishes, meat parts, stacks of tortillas and cactus leaves. I opted for store-made ceviche, guacamole, Amarillo tortillas, a small wedge of queso cotija, a six-pack of Estrella Jalisco, a handful of 10-cent limes and piece of flan.
I am so happy to learn more about my friend, Amy, a Texan for a long time, on her turf. I only see her when she returns to Cincinnati. Our parents became friends in college and lived in Chicago as young adults raising young families. They followed us to Cincinnati shortly after we were transplanted. We’re more family than friends. Because of life circumstance, I am the only one from my family available to make this trip. Amy and Stephen recently flew home to visit my sister and husband as he struggled with illness. That’s family and long-term friendship.