Texas Trip - I

The following piece is plagiarized from Shivaram's blog . I have been wanting to write about my trip down south, but if something is available readymade, American common-sense demands that it be immediately used instead of taking the trouble yourself. At a later stage, I'll check if Vishal has kept a log of my visit to Dallas. Otherwise, I'll write "Texas trip - II" myself :-)

Gandhi and Mammo came to Austin during the Christmas break, and we spent the good part of a week visiting places in and around Austin, and also went to San Antonio and Dallas. I enclose an account of the time we spent together.

I'm at the Austin Bergstrom terminal, waiting for Mammo's arrival. I look forward to meeting him; after all, I've been away from the 'chaps' for a while. Mammo arrives, all smiles, gliding down the escalator. We shake hands, and the spell is broken. As we sit in the airport lounge waiting for Gandhi's flight to arrive from San Jose, we trade notes on our respective lives as grad-students, Boston and Austin, India and America, etc. Then Gandhi arrives, wearing a brown leather jacket. I tell him it's unnecessary, because the blasted cold weather of the past few days has suddenly, as if by magic (or, as Mammo would claim, by virtue of his arrival!), given way to fair winds and sunny skies.

We take a taxi back home, and the driver takes us through a surprising short-cut. I tip her heavily, and don't mind having paid her more than I would have had she not taken the short cut. I wish her 'Merry Christmas,' and she is happy.

Gandhi, Mammo, and I would never have imagined we'd one day find ourselves in a kitchen, in front of a stove, attempting to cook food. But here we are today, grad-students and all, preparing with our own hands our nourishment. We only attempt to make Maggi, but a gooey broth too many cooks have spoilt results. We later learn that Gandhi did not know that water had to be added according to a prescribed proportion.

Lingo stays a couple of blocks away, and we decide to pay him a visit. His brother, who bears him an uncanny resemblance, is visiting. Gandhi and Lingo have much to discuss, while Mammo and I, for the most part, listen.

* * *

We are at the bus terminal, waiting in line for the bus that'll take us to San Antonio. The bus is two hours late, and we are surprised that nobody in the queue threatens to sue the service. Some people are restive, but our Indian years have prepared us rather well to cope with the delay. When we finally board the bus, it is only a matter of minutes before Gandhi and Mammo both fall asleep. As I look out of the window, I see for the first time since I arrived in Texas, its famous cows and horses. But there are no ranches like ones in the movies; in fact, I don't get to see more than five cows or two horses at any given time!We reach San Antonio.

* * *

We are by the famed river walk by late evening, and the place lives up to its fame. The river walk, built around a network of canals, is a thriving area for colourful people, colourful open air Mexican restaurants, and colourful Mexican food. The unconquerable joy of weaving in and out of a sea of humanity, celebrating something as simple as life, becomes ours. And even as we begin to gorge quesadillas and enchiladas at the Casa Rio, a Mariachi band strikes up, adding music to music.

The next morning we set out to visit the Alamo, a fortress where several treacherous battles are said to have been fought. We have difficulty finding the place, and ask an old man crossing the road along with us where the Alamo may be. He points to the same building in front of which we stand, one that had better not be described as anything more fancy than a run-down house. The 'fort' looks about as impressive as an Indian police station, and we decide not to inconvenience our cameras clicking away at so dull a specimen.

We head to the River Walk again, and this time perch ourselves on a boat that gives a guided tour around the place. We imbibe the interesting parts of the history of the place, as much as we let our eyes feast on beautiful people along the walk. We grab ourselves food at an Italian restaurant, and Gandhi and I buy ourselves straw hats. Gandhi does look impressive, and Mammo tells me I look like a Mexican immigrant!We head back to Austin, where we spend the night talking.

* * *

The next day we are joined by Lisa and Eric on a boat ride. We are at Lake Travis, situated a couple of tens of miles north and west of Austin. The ride to Lake Travis from my house cuts through hilly terrain, and is beautiful. Eric informs us that here's where the rich of Austin build their houses.We get into a 'speed-boat' and take turns driving it. The ride is exciting, and it feels nice to skim over the surface of the water at high speeds.

We visit Oasis, the famous Tex-Mex restaurant by the lake, for an evening meal. This place is also called the 'Sunset Capital' of Texas, and we are indeed lucky to find the sun taking its time to set over the lake as we make our up the cliff overhanging it. As I walk back to the restaurant, where our meals must by now be ready, a couple of little girls approach me with a digital camera and wonder if I could oblige them with a picture. They grin excitedly as I take the picture, and are very happy with the result. I'm not surprised they are, for I think they are even prettier than the setting sun!

* * *

We are in Dallas, and Mammo has to part ways. But we still manage to find time to sneak into a south Indian restaurant, and help ourselves to enormous helpings of pongal and vadai and sambar. With stomachs full, Gandhi and I finally say goodbye to Mammo, and ourselves proceed to the 'Sixth Floor,' the sixth floor of a building on Elm Street purportedly from where Lee Harry Oswald gunned down John Kennedy. We pour over the exhibits and information provided at the 'JFK Museum.' It seems that there is more to the killing than is widely known about it--the museum provides an interesting perspective. We also peek through the very window overlooking Houston Street and Dealy Plaza through which the bullets are said to have been fired, but today one can only see excited tourists and fast cars as one looks from this window. We bump into a fellow outside the building, who, with his own set of pictures and newspaper articles, is attempting to convince bystanders that he has proof Lyndon Johnson and other rich industrialists eager to amplify their profits during the Vietnam War were responsible for Kennedy's assassination. We nod our heads, leave his stall, and then stop nodding our heads.