Travelogue

I remember, as most people probably do, the instant I realized the world was bigger than my hometown.

That terminology is less than particular; I had been out of San Antonio before, exclusively to the Rio Grande Valley (a biannual trip to visit relatives) and South Padre Island (where – laughably, when viewed through the eyes of a current college student – we took yearly summer trips until I was around 14). I had also taken to making excursions to areas nearby but still in the Hill Country (Austin, or Canyon Lake) on days when I had to “work,” or so I’m sure I would have told my parents if they asked, which of course they never did.

In any case: It’s all Matt McDaniel’s fault. Driving in a ridiculous 9-passenger van rented for a trip to a UIL Science trip – yes, Rice, you read that correctly! – to Midland, I continually re-processed my location as though panning horizontally from an aerial vantage point. This is the furthest West I have ever been – no, this – no, again! – chatting half with the collection of friends along for the ride, half with the type of favorite high school teacher everyone has about college and travel. “I know you want to get out as quickly as you can,” he said, referring to Texas. “But out here is where things get magnificent.” And duly, my eyes did not leave the window as gnarled mesquites grew first into the sides of cliffs and then gave way to rock, as speed limit signs ticked upward from 65 to 80 and as oil pumps bent cyclically towards the earth, positioned against the sunset like black cranes dipping in and out of water.

And I got back home and I missed things like long roads and deserts and accompanying panoramas, achingly. My senior year of high school I had the misfortune of dating someone with equally absent supervision, which led to things like “oh let’s plan a roadtrip to California” or “oh let’s go climb this mountain in Colorado”, with extensive google-mapping and legitimate planning. I was the only one who took those things seriously, as fact would have it. A few months after we broke up, barely-eighteen-year-old Jordan decided, at five o’clock one summer morning, that it would be a good idea – or, at the very least, a good story – to take a day and visit Big Bend. Those not so well acquainted with the geography of Texas may not fully appreciate the absolute absurdity of that timescale, so I will state very embarrassingly for the record that I set out to drive 7 hours both there and back on no sleep, without telling anyone, without ever having driven more than two hours at once, feeling adequately prepared with a few cans of redbull, a backpack, and a breakfast taco. Needless to say, this was not the case.*

This led to several very important discoveries. In chronological order:

  1. Winding down the windows on highway 385, in just the right part of August, is intoxicating. Juniper floods the air. Nothing afterwards will ever smell so good, and you will be tricked into constantly believing you enjoy gin even if you do not.
  2. “Speed limit: 80” is secret code for “Set your cruise control to 95, and don’t look back.”
  3. Robert Earl Keen made his music to be played on IH-10. It’s okay to listen to “Sonora’s Death Row” as you pass through the wrong Sonora.
  4. Mountains! Mountains are ridiculous! They are so tall! Soooo tall, and you have to drive slowly, and they make you dizzy, and I had never spent so much time looking up and had never before had a landscape so abruptly, wonderfully interrupted.
  5. They are sooooooooo tall. Especially if you decide to climb them…in August…alone. Also, they hide behind other mountains, so you think you’re done and then you’re not.
  6. Spending 14 of 23 hours driving is tremendously fun until it is very suddenly not.
  7. Sleeping in your car in Kerrville is also not fun, but it is kind of hilarious.

And since then I’ve been rapidly captivated by countryside, by views from car and plane windows, by the mentally staggering absurdity of being tossed across various points that had existed on nothing other than a globe for the vast majority of my life. It’s fitting, I guess, that I started writing this on my first train – DC to New York. I remember telling Amy (who met up with me in Baltimore) that I was so excited I felt like it was going to Hogwarts. This was probably not an exaggeration. Subsequent adventures, in brief:

  1. New Year’s 2009, Guadalupe Mountains NP: there is not a single better place on earth to wake at dawn than in the middle of the desert.
  2. 05/09: Tall trees exist in real life, and they are all in Seattle. Also, May here = Texas in January, and that is the worst.
  3. 05/10: Venturing north to realize that Dallas and Fort Worth were, in fact, exactly as I expected
  4. 01/11: Attempting to discern the subtle differences between Southern New Mexico and West Texas; succeeding.
  5. 06/11: Bafflement at the dense, marshy forests lining the road on the first bus I took from Baltimore to DC.
  6. 08/11: Flying back to SA from DC at night, alarmingly discovering the feeling of being homesick and immediately recovering , knowing which cities are which by the layout of the freeways.

Here’s the confession: at twenty-one, I still have not been out of the country. I realize this is likely the standard for an average U.S. citizen, but it feels like a handicap at a top-twenty private university where most of my friends, if they don’t travel annually, have lived abroad for an extended period of time. Certainly, it seems almost woefully inept for someone intending to pursue work in international health. But that’s what fellowships are for.

* Although, on my most recent BBNP trip, we left at 3 a.m. from Houston after throwing a party. But that’s another (and much, much better) story. Idiotic spontaneity becomes me?

Travelogue

Norway v. Somalia, theatre v. food

“Why do we care about 70 dead people in Norway when we have 10,000 starving in Somalia?”

This question has not once failed to absolutely infuriate me every single time I’ve heard it over the past few days. Constantly preceded by a professed desire to avoid preaching, this is an intellectually lazy and  embarrassingly awful way to highlight a crisis and I’m ashamed of the people who resort to using it. Tragedy in cold blood is not something you invoke to highlight your pet issue. Here, for the record, are some good reasons we should care:

  • The anti-Muslim sentiment professed by the attacker is directly tied to overwhelming rates of immigration from North and East Africa – which, of course, largely result from things like poor farming conditions and famines and greater social unrest than is present in Europe.
  • We typically know how to deal with people who plant bombs in industrialized nations; we still haven’t figured out how to tackle desperate hunger. This is not a question of allocating resources other than media attention. You can still tinker with the treatment regiment for the cancer patient while extracting a bullet from another.

On a less volatile note, this is my youtube video of the week (I clearly miss doing the announcements): a very snarky commentary on where to throw your extra cash.

Norway v. Somalia, theatre v. food

South by…

This is a bit behind the times, but as of late June Texas was one vote away from approving a Confederate flag license plate. Here’s a bit from Paul Burka at Texas Monthly that I’m going to quote directly simply because I agree with the sentiment wholeheartedly:

Texas is both a southern and a western state, and, of the two, I much prefer the western heritage to the southern. To me, the Confederate flag is inextricably linked with a dark part of our history, namely, segregation. That is my personal reaction; I do not ascribe that view to others. I had a history professor who liked to say, “Every man his own historian,” by which he meant that each must make our individual judgments about history.
The west, on the other hand, is a land of great vistas and rugged landscapes and endless distances that reinforce our state’s great myths of the wide open spaces and the great ranches and oil fields that sat atop land so unforgiving that only the devil could love it.

Celebration of the Confederacy is something I don’t understand in general. I get the bit about heritage, and about preserving family histories in particular; I also understand how that aspect of the trend appeals so strongly to the collection of southern fratboys who have adopted it. What I don’t understand how Texas, of all places, fits in. We are a state as focused on progress and expansion as we are dedicated to pride in the past, but that pride itself is focused and nuanced, and particularly self-centered. I will take annual joy in breaking from Mexico, in forging a new nation and succeeding – and also in the eventual recognition that that nation could become something better and stronger by joining with another. I will never comprehend exit en-masse in support of a bloc we did not rely upon quite so heavily, and can’t begin to suspend recognition of social injustice for the sake of a cultural symbol. Among other things, it also clashes quite violently with my mental categorization of what I consider home. Even Houston, overrun with immigrants of all stripes and suburban sprawl and Czech barbecue – almost especially Houston, entrenched in oil money – is, in my mind, very much a part of the American Southwest. “Rugged” is the overused, romanticized, and appropriate term. In Blood Meridian, Cormac McCarthy begins a sprawling border epic with a crawl out of the gulf and through Nacogdoches. In Padre and Palacios, we ride horses on the banks. Our old money eschews pastels and boat shoes for pressed Levi’s and hand-crafted boots. I like all of these things this way, very much, and association with the south rather than the west in such a deeply embarrassing way seems incongruous. Let Georgia pull shit like this; it doesn’t belong here.

All that being said, I’m desperately hoping it gets approved, if only because it’s the sort of story that would get national recognition: any ammunition allowing Obama to take down Perry more easily is a good thing.

South by…