February 14, 2002

Takes one hour longer for me to drive from Mertzon to Austin than five years ago. Distances are the same. Occasional detours make small differences in time. Speed limits through the small towns on the way are no different. The commuter traffic from all points leading to and from the Capitol city causes the time loss.

Country people overreact to traffic. Mertzon's last traffic jam was after the big hail storm six years ago drew sightseers from San Angelo. Wool capital citizens jammed the streets, checking, I suppose, to see if any Mertzon folks felled by the concussion of the stones might be still lying in their front yards.

At the ranch, the county road carries heavy traffic during deer season. An influx of rolling stock equal to a big city auto show covers the roadways in bright new pickups towing combat-colored hunting wagons. Night before opening day, care must be taken not to tailgate the red caps, as sudden stops for liquid refreshments are common. A good guideline is if you can see the bolts on the rifles in the rack through the rear window, you are following too close. More from superstition than actual danger, I always pass hunters on the side where the butt end of the racked guns rest, as recoil in no way compares to the firepower of a 30-06.

Once I am in Austin, directions aren't a problem. Four of my children live there. If I stick to main thoroughfares, I'll hit one of their neighborhoods. In the days when my sons concentrated around the University, they were harder to find, but the target was larger as more of the family lived in Austin then. Also, I wasn't so far out of touch as I am today. Counting the Capitol grounds and the campus, besides the UT tower and the Capitol dome, all of six buildings look familiar today. To be shown around, I learned 20 years ago that my sons don't care to hear where old Dad took his first ride in a taxicab or saw Governor-elect James Allred help his wife from a limousine on inauguration day in 1946.

Restaurants keep opening and closing, too. I start in a big way eating in new places my guides recommend. Individual preferences hit a wide range. Two of my grandsons, for example, insist on having breakfast after church in a delicatessen open 24 hours of the day. The joint stays full of students eating chicken livers on white crackers and pastrami on dark rye in an aura awash with the odor of garlic and malt.

Others prefer the high-classed dining room of the Four Seasons Hotel on Town Lake for breakfast. "Short Stack" at the Four Seasons doesn't apply to pancakes. "Short Stack" at the Four Seasons means your dough is going to come up way short after you pay the tab. However, hobnobbing with ladies and gentlemen paying 400 bucks a night for a room is more enriching than hanging out at an all-night deli full of broke college kids and footsore waitresses.

Another choice, this time for lunch, was a new Cuban place on South Lamar called "La Habana." No number was listed in the phone book. The directions were: "Go past the 'Broken Spoke' dance hall and make a sharp right after the funeral home." Better directions are: "Go until you see a little dump of an Austin cafe on South Lamar, painted bright green and brighter blue, surrounded by small red cars and old vans painted in arcane 'hippy' colors. Then pull over."

The special was roast pork loin on fried plantains for the bread. (Be reminded, please, plantains are second cousin to a banana.) Any time I eat a dish as new as fried plantains, I tighten my belt, straighten my glasses, and be sure my chair aligns with the table. Seems to help adjust to the new taste to start on target. Helps, also, to look unconcerned as the palate begins to force the new food back onto your tongue.

Great grandfather Noelke came by wagon from the West to make passenger rail connections at Georgetown, 30 miles north of Austin. My stepfather's grandfather fought off an Indian attack on one of his trips to meet the train at Georgetown, an attack severe enough that his guest from Kentucky hid under a tarpaulin in the wagon bed. The thought hit, creeping along bumper-locked on a freeway, of checking on the rail service from Georgetown to Austin to shorten the last leg of the trip. Reducing the fuel burned idling the engine waiting to move and ending the roaming charge on the cell phone calling in late should offset the cost of a railroad ticket.

One change, I noted, was that the spicy Cuban food caused me to honk the horn more and drive faster in traffic. Brought a big relief to be able to join the flow of the Austin drivers instead of being intimidated by a town filled with smooth cheeks.

February 14, 2002

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