First, Austin. Here's what we did and saw: we ate fish tacos twice; we went to the Whole Foods Mother Ship where we got the best papaya ever and their exceedingly friendly meat guy loaded us up with osso buco (our AirStream had a slow cooker in it! All our stuff smells like meat now), merguez sausages, and then gave us some other forced meat products as a welcome-to-Texas gift; we peed outside between the trailer and the backyard fence (totally sanctioned and encouraged in signage posted inside the trailer by the landlady... seriously and truly); we threw our food compost down the hill into the woods behind that very same sweet trailer in which we slept; I knitted a very terrible cowl-cape thingy that Ben thinks makes for an adorable mini-skirt (for a 10-year-old); in the middle of the night, wearing nothing but a jacket, knee socks, and rain boots, I threw a poop down that very same hill into those very same woods behind that very same trailer where the compost gets thrown--it was really unladylike, but it was the rightest thing to do at the time; we stayed up late and watched the movie 'Tiny'--it's about people building very tiny houses, mostly in the 200 square foot range--and, as we were staying for a few nights in this big, lush 27 foot trailer, we were naturally inspired to downsize; we talked to our landlady du jour about the excellence that is Austin; we fed and petted the affectionate black cat that came with the trailer; we talked to each other about how much we didn't care about staying in Austin (it's us, not Austin); and we left Austin without seeing very much of it. We loved that trailer so much.
We did see one amazing and beautiful thing on our way out of town last Thursday. Susan Jones texted a list of Austin swimming holes, which seem to be a thing in the way that a Starbucks on every corner or ladies wearing fleece are a thing in Seattle. I'm sure Ben got better photos of this natural wonder. It's caves! That little hole in the shallowest stream ever goes down and down and down forever and divers sometimes get lost or stuck and die in there. It's only big enough in some places to swim your body and a tank of oxygen through, and then it opens into gorgeous, underwater caverns and mazes. Google it: Jacob's Well. We just hung out at the surface with this guy.
True to our aggressive driving schedule, we then drove for almost three hours and arrived in Hondo, TX, where Billy got sick. We stayed for an extra night in Hondo, where the local mechanic fiddled with Billy's guts, got us running in under ten minutes, let us hover over his shoulder, and charged exactly nothing for his trouble. The tow truck driver was also that nice. So was the guy at the auto parts store. And the taco lady. It is possible that everyone in Texas is just that nice, except when they drive. Upon entering Texas from the west, we were greeted with an enormous sign that read, "Welcome to Texas! Drive Friendly, the Texas Way." Like signs in corporate offices posting statements of corporate culture, it felt more aspirational than true. Unlike corporate offices, 4:00 pm in Texas looks like this:
In New Mexico, we passed again through Las Cruces, where we did not go to the Toucan grocery store that I like, but we did stay at the Hotel Encanto de Las Cruces--our last fancy hurrah before Tucson. Sometimes, after a trailer and a string of funny, cinder block roadside motels, fancy feels so fine. So very fine, indeed. We looked like a pair of Beverly Hillbillies moving all of our earthly belongings into such a fine room and also laughing hysterically about it as it was happening.
And then there was last night. I got greedy with Priceline after our fancy hotel night, not taking into account that things change from town to town, state to state. Can you see that truck in front of Billy? It is carrying missiles. That's right. Missiles. I should have heeded the omen.
We left our room at the Sheraton in Tucson this morning at 2:00 am after brief but serious talks with the front desk and Priceline customer service (like the elusive New Mexico dust storm, this may exist--to date I have encountered neither such thing). Until this very day at just past midnight I had never seen a bed bug. Imagine my surprise to learn that they are visible to my naked eye and all the entomological paranoia of the past two months could have been avoided with one simple trip to the internet. They are hideous. Ben's photos are more forgiving than the internet's.
And so we loaded our many crates and bins into Billy and moved back to our old standby, the Best Western, for one last night where the night clerk told us we could stay until 1:00 pm and get some rest. We scoured the room for any signs of the offending creatures, and of course placed everything we own that is not housed in a plastic crate safely in the bathtub.
Until the middle of last night, I had not actually felt homeless. Fleeing a hotel in the night is a decidedly not rich and beautiful experience. We are right now curled up in the huge, bug-free bed of our last hotel. We move into our winter digs this afternoon, where we can wash everything in scalding water, unpack our cooking gear, always find the cumin, do laundry on a whim, and not waste another single moment packing our things and loading and unloading Billy.
When I was a little girl, I was sure that the turtle was my spirit animal. I was not sure why. I may have somewhat romanticized the idea that home is with Ben, wherever we laugh, wherever we discover, wherever we keep falling in love. We learned last night that home is also where we can sleep through the night, feel safe from blood-suckers, and refrigerate our food. It doesn't have to be the same place every night, but it helps if it's the same place all night.
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Short play of the day
Ben: I love you.
James: (jumps on Ben like a spider monkey) You are my spirit animal!
Ben and James together: hysterical laughter
