I left for Houston following a whirlwind cleaning and packing of my apartment in Columbus, Georgia. A few days prior I had estimated what I would need for my road trip and put the rest of my belongings into storage. My planning had worked out (surprisingly) well and I jammed the rest of my personal effects into my small SUV. I left my house sleep deprived, smelling of bleach (and a little high from the industrial strength cleaning products), and ready to get the hell out of Dodge . . .err Columbus.
I was in optimal driving condition
I was in optimal driving condition
Twelve hours, a can of Copenhagen Wintergreen, a nondescript packaged meat product, and 2 gallons of caffeinated products later I arrived in Houston. I was riding an adrenaline (and caffeine) high, but I was more than a little apprehensive for these 3 reasons:
First, a mild onset of caffeine induced paranoia coupled with dehydration and the coffee jitters had set in.
Second, before my arrival, the cronies I was to meet with that night had battled the city of Houston and had been defeated. And with the cavalry (that's me) only minutes away . . . had they but known . . . So, I was to be alone when I entered the city.
Third, I was staying in a hostel for the first time. To be honest, I didn't know that hostels were a thing in the U.S. until I scoped the stay in Houston. I had no idea what the experience was going to be like. I read some good reviews for the place I was staying (The Morty Rich Hostel - Hosteling International - Houston, TX), which helped put me at ease. Still, I was alone in a strange land staying with a group of strangers. The hostel turned out to be fine. There were lockers in the room to lock up my gear and the beds were bunked, but adequately spaced to allow for freedom of maneuver. The bathroom was attached and everything was clean. Good enough for the first night, but not a place that puts a mind at ease.
By the time I had settled in it was 11:30 PM, so I decided to wander around the neighborhood a bit and get a feel for the city. A friend of mine had given me an impressively extensive breakdown of the city and one of his favorite joints, called the Hay Merchant, was a couple of blocks away. I entered it into my phone and set off for my first Houston bar.
A short walk later I entered the Hay Merchant. It was chill, moderately sized, with a fair amount of people. It was midnight on a Friday, prime bar time, and it was comfortably full, but no where near packed. I walked up to the bar and took a look at the blackboard style beer list, and was pleased to find one my favorites among the 30-40 beers listed (Petrus Aged Pale, a recommendation for those with an adventurous palette). I grabbed a seat, took a sip, and the negative effects of sleep deprivation and caffeine overindulgence hit me with a vengeance.
I sat there with my stomach turning, both exhausted and artificially energetic, and felt irrationally uncomfortable. I was twitching, sitting by myself, and the Badger game was the next day. So I chugged my beer and quickly left with my tail snugly tucked between my legs.
The next morning I woke up early and decided to go for a little run to explore the neighborhood. Shoes laced, music queued, and short shorts pulled up high, I hit the street. However, I did not take my phone with me, a decision I would soon regret.
*First Hard Learned Lesson of Traveling Alone: Always bring your phone in an unfamiliar neighborhood, no matter what the activity.*
I was feeling pretty good when I set off, a little dehydrated, but the after effects of the caffeine overdose had worn off. I ran up the road I drove in on, passing a few bars and restaurants that looked familiar. I came to the end of the neighborhood and decided to follow the loop around. I was generally aware of the direction I had to travel to make it back to hostel, so I took the turn without a second thought. Shortly after I ran into a school complex that looked like a prison for children. It was approximately 800 meters long and surrounded by 12 foot high razor wire (at least that's the way I'll always remember it). By the time I got to the end of mini internment camp I was in a neighborhood, but I felt confident in my navigational skills so I kept on running.
When my watch hit 30 minutes I was tired, sick of running, and lost as hell, so I started walking. I resigned myself to walk for 2 minutes and then sprint for a minute, a technique that we call 60/120s in the biz, and tried to navigate myself back. I walk/sprinted around the skyline, under an overpass, around a park, and past the same restaurant 3 times. Eventually I resigned myself to ask for directions. I was very discerning in my selections, looking only for locals. One guy was running, one girl was walking her dog, and another was carrying groceries. I picked 3 distinctive land marks to ask about: 1.)The Hostel, 2.)Hay Merchant (recommended so I figured people should know of it) and 3.) Uchi (the Houston version of the best restaurant in Austin). It felt like a can't miss approach to find my way back. It missed. Every person stared at me like I had asked how to get to Europe by way of motor-carriage. They were confused, curt, and completely unhelpful.
Houston is a city that suffers from the paradox of choice. The paradox of choice is a theory which was advanced by an American psychologist Barry Schwartz. Part of the theory states that the more choices a person has the more miserable they are due to a number of different factors (being overwhelmed, fear of missing out, regret over what was chosen vs. what wasn't etc.). Houston is huge and the choices are abundant. In order to deal with the enormity of choices available each neighborhood/block has become self contained. There is cool stuff to do everywhere, but there is no one social center. Therefore, in order to counteract the negative effects of the paradox of choice, the Houston in which each Houstonian lives is incredibly small.
So, when I asked these Houstonians about places 8 block away I may as well been asking them where the Old Fashioned was located in Madison, Wisconsin. I was forced to rely on an old friend to get me through: blind, dumb luck. Eventually I found a bar I recognized and was able to make my way back to my hostel. My 30 minute run turned into a 30 minute run with a 45 minute sprint workout. I had overachieved quite extraordinarily. I showered, threw on my game day attire and set off to find a coffee.
I found a coffee shop, but arrived at a revelation first. Everybody in the Montrose neighborhood (or nearly so) has a dog, but nobody carries a doggie bag for leavings. You would think, given these two bits, that there would be dog shit everywhere . . . and you would be correct. There was dog poop everywhere. I stepped in poop twice, before I realized that I was in a veritable minefield of dog poo. My training taking over, I deftly started identifying the doggie bombs, made deliberate, decisive movements, and safely made my way to the coffee joint then back to my hostel without a third incident.
From the hostel I left for the game. The story of which can be found in my previous post (Houston Part 1: Badgers in Tigerland).
Post game, dejected but willing to rally (recap: the Badgers lost), we made our way to the Hay Merchant. The Hay Merchant took on a whole different appeal with a small group (and without suffering from caffeine induced paranoia/tremors). It was a perfect little neighborhood joint. Small enough to enjoy the conversation of a small, intimate group (our conversation was an extended lament of the Badgers performance), but large and inviting enough to foster interaction between groups. We met some newscasters and cameramen from a local TV station and had a lovely chat. We called it a night shortly after and each headed back to our respective dwellings for the night.
End of Part 2.
When I said Houston would be a 2 part entry I lied, it will be 3 parts. This concludes part 2 of the Houston trilogy. Tomorrow's entry will include hobbits, pictures, the Galleria, amateur art, and the kindness of strangers.
Take away from Houston days 1 and 2: Montrose is trendy and covered in dog poop, you (probably) won't get murdered in an American hostel, and caffeine is a hell of a drug.
*First Hard Learned Lesson of Traveling Alone: Always bring your phone in an unfamiliar neighborhood, no matter what the activity.*
I was feeling pretty good when I set off, a little dehydrated, but the after effects of the caffeine overdose had worn off. I ran up the road I drove in on, passing a few bars and restaurants that looked familiar. I came to the end of the neighborhood and decided to follow the loop around. I was generally aware of the direction I had to travel to make it back to hostel, so I took the turn without a second thought. Shortly after I ran into a school complex that looked like a prison for children. It was approximately 800 meters long and surrounded by 12 foot high razor wire (at least that's the way I'll always remember it). By the time I got to the end of mini internment camp I was in a neighborhood, but I felt confident in my navigational skills so I kept on running.
When my watch hit 30 minutes I was tired, sick of running, and lost as hell, so I started walking. I resigned myself to walk for 2 minutes and then sprint for a minute, a technique that we call 60/120s in the biz, and tried to navigate myself back. I walk/sprinted around the skyline, under an overpass, around a park, and past the same restaurant 3 times. Eventually I resigned myself to ask for directions. I was very discerning in my selections, looking only for locals. One guy was running, one girl was walking her dog, and another was carrying groceries. I picked 3 distinctive land marks to ask about: 1.)The Hostel, 2.)Hay Merchant (recommended so I figured people should know of it) and 3.) Uchi (the Houston version of the best restaurant in Austin). It felt like a can't miss approach to find my way back. It missed. Every person stared at me like I had asked how to get to Europe by way of motor-carriage. They were confused, curt, and completely unhelpful.
Houston is a city that suffers from the paradox of choice. The paradox of choice is a theory which was advanced by an American psychologist Barry Schwartz. Part of the theory states that the more choices a person has the more miserable they are due to a number of different factors (being overwhelmed, fear of missing out, regret over what was chosen vs. what wasn't etc.). Houston is huge and the choices are abundant. In order to deal with the enormity of choices available each neighborhood/block has become self contained. There is cool stuff to do everywhere, but there is no one social center. Therefore, in order to counteract the negative effects of the paradox of choice, the Houston in which each Houstonian lives is incredibly small.
So, when I asked these Houstonians about places 8 block away I may as well been asking them where the Old Fashioned was located in Madison, Wisconsin. I was forced to rely on an old friend to get me through: blind, dumb luck. Eventually I found a bar I recognized and was able to make my way back to my hostel. My 30 minute run turned into a 30 minute run with a 45 minute sprint workout. I had overachieved quite extraordinarily. I showered, threw on my game day attire and set off to find a coffee.
I found a coffee shop, but arrived at a revelation first. Everybody in the Montrose neighborhood (or nearly so) has a dog, but nobody carries a doggie bag for leavings. You would think, given these two bits, that there would be dog shit everywhere . . . and you would be correct. There was dog poop everywhere. I stepped in poop twice, before I realized that I was in a veritable minefield of dog poo. My training taking over, I deftly started identifying the doggie bombs, made deliberate, decisive movements, and safely made my way to the coffee joint then back to my hostel without a third incident.
From the hostel I left for the game. The story of which can be found in my previous post (Houston Part 1: Badgers in Tigerland).
Post game, dejected but willing to rally (recap: the Badgers lost), we made our way to the Hay Merchant. The Hay Merchant took on a whole different appeal with a small group (and without suffering from caffeine induced paranoia/tremors). It was a perfect little neighborhood joint. Small enough to enjoy the conversation of a small, intimate group (our conversation was an extended lament of the Badgers performance), but large and inviting enough to foster interaction between groups. We met some newscasters and cameramen from a local TV station and had a lovely chat. We called it a night shortly after and each headed back to our respective dwellings for the night.
End of Part 2.
When I said Houston would be a 2 part entry I lied, it will be 3 parts. This concludes part 2 of the Houston trilogy. Tomorrow's entry will include hobbits, pictures, the Galleria, amateur art, and the kindness of strangers.
Take away from Houston days 1 and 2: Montrose is trendy and covered in dog poop, you (probably) won't get murdered in an American hostel, and caffeine is a hell of a drug.
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