Pirate Bars and Honey Jars

After a rejuvenating night in Houston I hit the road, Baton Rouge or bust.  Contrary to my laid back sensibilities I was burdened with a responsibility, what a buzzkill.  Fortunately my task was picking up two of my favorite people from the airport, my mom and my sister.  I utilized the following bit of backwards planning to extrapolate what time I must leave Houston in order to execute a punctual pickup of my kinfolk.  Feel free to check my work.

1.) My sister and mom's flight is estimated to arrive in Baton Rouge at 7:25pm
2.) Flights will occasionally arrive 20 minutes early, so I had best plan on arriving 30 minutes early at 6:55pm
3.) It takes approximately 4 hours to travel from Houston to Baton Rouge by automobile
4.)Traffic exists in this world, so I had better plan on a 30 minute delay in the trip

Solution: If I plan for 4 hours and 30 minutes of driving and I want to arrive in Baton Rouge by 6:55pm I will need to leave Houston by 2:25pm.

So, I left Houston at 2:25pm.  I know what you're thinking, you're thinking, "Cale, that logic is air tight, you stud, utilizing such exceptional deductive reasoning there is no way that you would be late for pickup.  Good job buddy!"  Well my friend, first thank you for your kind words, and second you would be wrong.  What I didn't take into consideration for my planning was the Atchafalaya Basin Bridge.  Now for those who are ignorant on the subject of American automobile bridges, the Atchafalaya Basin Bridge is an 18.2 mile bridge approximately 20 miles west of Baton Rouge.  While those facts are interesting in themselves (bonus fact: it is the 6th longest automobile bridge in the world) the interesting relevant fact is that once on a bridge it is near impossible to exit.  Let's say for example there is a car wreck on the bridge, it would be incredibly difficult to clear the wreck from the road, and also incredibly difficult to bypass as a motorist on said bridge.

This was not a fictitious example, I ran into (pause for effect) a car wreck along the Atchafalaya.  As I crept along I-10 I was fiddling with my phone.  I am not proud to say that at this point in my life I was still using the iphone map, so decided to shake it up a bit and try out Google Maps.  The google maps madam (whom I have named Linda) immediately informed me that I could exit in a mile and save myself and hour.  I followed Linda's advice and I have been listening to her sagely advice ever since.

Let me say this in its own paragraph in order to emphasize its importance.  Google maps is a game changer in travel.  Linda can save you hours when driving by utilizing her algorithmic brain to analyze traffic, pinpoint accidents, and guide you back onto the path when you've gone astray.  Also, as I found in Europe, even when you disable your phone's internet google maps can still be used to find your current location and give directions.  How is this possible?  I have no clue, blood sacrifice, chanting, and divination would be my guess.

Having only lost 45 minutes in traffic, I was again moving at a respectable speed towards to the pickup.  At 7:05pm I received a call from my sister, they had landed and were about to disembark from the plane.  Shit.  Even with a moderate level of disregard traffic laws, I was still going to be late.  I had failed my family.  They were forced to wait 10 minutes until I finally arrived at 7:15pm.  

This brings up the second valuable lesson that I learned along the drive from Houston to Baton Rouge:  Never attempt to pick someone up from a transportation hub (plane, train, bus, etc.) if you are more than 2 hours away.  In retrospect I should have found a way to be at most 2 hours away the morning of pickup.  I didn't and I was late.

I finally pulled into the arrivals corral at the Baton Rouge airport and greeted both family types with a hug.  I asked about the trip and then instantly regretted it.  It is not a topic suitable for this blog, but it was not a pleasant experience.  Having sufficiently set the conditions for an awkward car ride, we set off for cousin Carol and Jim's place in the outskirts of Baton Rouge.

We arrived to a toasty warm greeting from Carol and Jim.  Carol is my mother's first cousin and she regaled us with childhood tales of my mother and the Louisiana cousin's escapades on our family farm in rural Wisconsin.  The tales all had a Tom Sawyeresque sense of good old fashioned rural mischief.

Carol and Jim were both vibrant and warm people, and their overall jovialtiy belied a depth and richness of character.  I feel that many who have lived their entire lives in urban settings have a tendency to see rural folk as uncultured, uneducated simpletons.  In my experience I have found this to be miles from truth.  Carol told tales about her time in Saudi Arabia and her and I discussed cultural differences between the West and the Middle East.  Carol was also an avid painter and frequently volunteered as a role player for military and police exercises; she was a decidedly badass woman.

Jim was an absolute character.  He was a self described coonass and was quick to quip with colorful Cajun sayings.  He was fluent in a Cajun style of French with a dialect that is so unique that is nearly a different language from tradition French.  Jim was a pilot, having served in the Air Force and had stories enough to match his wife.  Ah, I nearly forgot to mention the food that greeted us when we arrived.  There was fruit and honey that was harvested from Jim's apiary, and sausages homemade by a family member.  Nearly all of the food and even some of the alcohol that we enjoyed was made from scratch by Jim and Carol or a friend of the family.

A quick interlude: The farm to table trend has recently taken hold of urban settings and has quickly begun to permeate into the suburbs.  However, for people who live in rural environments this has been a way of life for generations.  Growing up in a household that was one generation removed from the farm I took for granted all the fresh meat, fruit, and condiments I was lucky enough to enjoy straight from the source.  Cultivating natural sustainable food sources a way of life for my relatives from the country.  Everything from sustainable beef, wild game, apples, maple syrup, alcohol, and even hops to name a few are raised on Bakken and Hilleshiem land throughout this fine country, and it's all top notch.  Urbanites are finally able to appreciate the higher quality of food that I have been consuming for years.

The rapidly advancing night, strain of air travel, and sufficiently full bellies were leading my sister and mom towards sleep.  I had been drinking caffeine saturated beverages for going on 8 hours, so sleep was not coming any time soon for yours truly.  Luckily I had a good friend who was out in Baton Rouge with his lady friend, so I bid a good night to everyone, and rode my caffeine wave down to the the Acme Oyster house to see what shenanigans they were getting into.

The Acme Oyster House is an institution in the South and has a smattering of locations along the gulf coast.  The most iconic Acme is located in the heart of New Orleans and is known for its shrimp, wait no . . . its oysters.  I met Jordan and Laura at the bar (good man, there's a reason we're friends).  We told stories, we laughed, we knocked back a few Abitas, and ate tray after tray of big beefy oyster.  When our oyster limit had been reached we decided to head to one last establishment for the night: the Cove.

The Cove is a beer and whisky bar with an enormous selection of both.  I've been to many a bar in my day, but the Cove may have had the largest beer selection of any bar I have patronized.  Upon entering the Cove I was greeted with this:

The Game of Thrones Beer Series
This exists in our world and the world is better for it.  Unfortunately on this night the beast eluded me.  However, on a recent trip to Atlanta I was able to get my hands on the Three Eyed Raven release.  Was it good?  Sure was.  If you see it, stock up my friends, because winter is coming.

A Game of Thrones beer?!  How the heck had I not heard of this?  It was a combination of two things I loved, and I would be able to drink it.  Unfortunately, I wasn't able to drink it.  The Game of Thrones beer series by Ommegang Brewery were released in limited quantities and it seems that people were as excited as I was for it and ordered it all up before I could try it, the bastards.  The cove did however have a nice selection of flemish reds (one of my favorite types of beer), so I was only mildly disappointed.  The inside of the Cove was weird.  Picture a pirate themed 10 year old's birthday party smashed together with a whiskey lounge and you have an accurate conception of the Cove.  There were nautical implements and jolly rogers adorning the walls with leather high-back booths.  It was an odd atmosphere, but it had beer and a lot of it so it was good in my book.

The beer was leveling out my caffeine high and I was beginning to crash, so I bid adieu to Jordan and Laura.  I was off to find my bed for the night at a new location, but that story can wait until next time.

And now a few insights:

1.)Google Maps should always be the primary navigation tool
2.)Always abide by the 2 hour pickup rule
3.)Generosity of character does not preclude depth of character
4.)Game of Thrones beer exists

There you have it.  My family and I had safely arrived in Louisiana and were welcomed with open arms and open tables.  This theme of hospitality will act as a motif throughout the entirety of the Louisiana adventure.  Southern hospitality is taken incredibly seriously in the bayou.  Family is accepted without reservation and with and outpouring of generosity.

I would like to end by congratulating Jordan and Laura from the tale on their recent engagement.  So . . . Congratulations you crazy kids!

Friday Morning Shakes and Friday Night Lights

I threw Austin into my rear view mirror as I would an empty bottle of 14 year Belvenie, not drunk mind you, but with fond, hazy memories, a mild sense of ambiguous regret, and a pleasant taste in my mouth.  I left Austin (sober) and headed for Baton Rouge to meet up with some family I knew and some family I didn't.  That plan and those fond memories lasted for all of I'd say 5 miles before the hangover came a knocking.  I decided to shorten my course and head for Houston.  I made a call to my good friend Ben (from the Badgers in Tigerland fame) to see if I could crash for the night.  He graciously acquiesced to my request and he and his lovely wife Alyssa offered a to put me up and to put up with me for the night.  

The Silver Second Hour:
The Silver Second Hour is an immutable rule of the road trip and it goes as such:  When driving an extended distance whilst hungover one must be able to make it at least two hours on the road before stopping or else the likelihood of reaching the final destination falls from 95% to 10%.  This figure assumes that A.) the driver is driving alone on the trip, B.) there is a soft deadline, and C.) the trip is more then 5 hours.  These figures are mitigated by a number of different factors, such as: if there are other passengers in the vehicle, if there is a hard deadline that must be reached, the ability to achieve the perfect caffeine to discomfort ratio, etc.  I made it approximately an hour before my head and stomach working in tandem forced a stop.  As we all now know, based on the Silver Second Hour, it was not my fate to make it to Baton Rouge on this day.

Now it goes without saying that having friends is one of the great things in life, but having friends dispersed along the route of a road trip is even better.  Having friends as generous and hospitable as Alyssa and Ben is true God send.  Yet the true pièce de résistance is having friends of the interesting type with varied and unique hobbies that are the precursors to a story, which this is, so here's the story.

Ben is a referee for high school football in the great state of Texas.  It was Friday night and wouldn't you know it, Ben had a high school football game to ref.  He asked if I would like to tag along and get the behind the scenes access for a high school football game.  I did indeed want to do that, so we did indeed do that.  

I arrived at the LeBlanc household before Ben and had some time to settle in and exchange niceties with Alissa and make meet their furry roommate Layla.  A few tummy rubs later, Ben returned home and quickly grabbed his hanging uniform and a sports bag.  We hit the road and headed down to the stadium.

Houston confuses me.  It's huge and weird.  The city center is smallish with 5 layers of suburb, so getting from the 'burb to downtown is a substantial trek.

A substantial trek later we arrived at the stadium.  Television shows such as Friday Night Lights and movies such as Varsity Blues will lead you to believe that Texas high school sports stadiums are the size of college stadiums.  Perhaps they are larger in other cities, but the Houston stadium didn't blow me away by its size.  It seemed only marginally bigger than the stadium that I played in in Southern Wisconsin.  What did blow me away was how nice it was.  There was clearly a large amount of money invested in the stadium.  The seats were college quality, the locker room appearance was beautiful, there was a jumbotron which was at the time the largest for any high school stadium in the nation, and so on, and so on.

Friday Night Pre-Lights
Check out the size of that screen.  Geez.

We were allowed to enter the side gate as Ben flashed his badge and I was ushered in like a movie star's floozy.  I was in the big time now, baby.  We went into the locker room, which was (shockingly) huge and quality.  The refs had their own side locker room all to themselves.  I was granted access to this inner sanctum that few non-ref types ever get to see.  I was immediately greeted with a bevy of old man wiener and butt.  Nice, being a military man myself, it really made me feel comfortable.  After that lovely greeting, I was introduced to the faces of the team of refs.  They were a group of real nice blokes who were totally cool with a random dude milling about as they stood around naked.

I like to create an interactive experience as much as possible as I'm writing.  So, interaction time!  I am about to pose a question that I want you to think about and answer inside your head before continuing.

How much time before the game started did we arrive at the stadium?

Do you have your answer?  Good, the actual answer was 3 hours, and Ben was the last one to arrive.  Literally for 3 hours before the game all the way up to the coin flip these guys were prepping.  Sticks were applied to places (still not exactly sure what was going on with those sticks), hydration salts were consumed, shoes were polished, uniforms were checked, double checked and triple checked.  It was, well . . . it was impressive.  I can not imagine NFL referees being this dedicated and professional in their preparation.  The banter as well was hysterically appropriate.  For three hours all these guys talked about was past calls, that guy from that one team who said that thing to that ref, and what they would've done to that coach if he would've done that thing.  It was quite entertaining.

Game time finally arrived.  Scratch that, just before game time finally arrived. After a brief ref/coach meeting we headed out to wander aimlessly around the field while we waited for the players to make their entrance.  The entrance that Texas high school players make is significantly different than anywhere else I have seen.  Between the time we entered the locker room and the time we reemerged two gigantic inflatable tunnels had been inflated.  According to Ben these inflatable mascot/tunnels cost anywhere between $10,000 and $20,000.  They were apparently a point of pride for the schools and it was public knowledge who had the best and who had the worst.  

A few players emerged, a coin was tossed, and they all returned to the locker room in diametrically opposed levels of enthusiasm.  A few more minutes of waiting and then . . . .boom 16, 17, and 18 years olds came flying out of NFL caliber tunnels, thus signalling that kickoff was eminent.

I randomly chose a side to creep on, stood a few feet away from the team, folded my arms and tried to look like as little of a creeper as I could.  Then again being a random old dude in a T-shirt, lingering on the sideline made limiting my creepy factor an enormous task, but the folded arms helped.  After a few minutes into the game I introduced myself to the other two adult, non-coach types on the sideline and told them who I was and what I was doing there.  They were the principal and wife for the team whose side I had arbitrarily chose and we engaged in an on again off again conversation throughout the game, which was quite pleasant.

A quick observation must be made; high school students are tiny.  No matter how big you thought you were in high school you were nothing but a large child.  These were kids in pads and it showed.  Granted, once the sun went down and the lights came up they looked less like kids because of the ambiance, but kids they were.  It was a bit of a shock to my memory seeing these top tier Texas high school football players, some of whom were indubitably playing at a D-1 colleges next year, look like children.  I thought I was pretty big in high school, apparently I wasn't, but I suppose memory makes rock stars of us all.

Friday Night Lights:
Children, they're all children.

When you have a friend who's reffing you pay significantly more attention to the lawmen on the field than your average fan.  Ben ran his freaking ass off.  I would put dollars to donuts that Ben ran more than anyone else on the entire field.  He was the young buck of the refs, and I'm sure he was in the position he was because of that, but God damn, he got one hell of a workout.

The game ended, someone won (I wasn't really paying attention to the game.  I had no horse in this race, ya dig?) and we headed back to the locker room so Ben could get cleaned up and out of there.  

Ben got cleaned up, and we got out of there.  We decided to stop and grab a drink and a bite on the way back, so we swung by your neighborhood bar and grill, Applebee's.  The food wasn't great, but the beers were big so it wasn't a half bad meal.

We talked about the game because we're guys and . . . football.  Eventually we began talking about Houston in general.  It was interesting to hear Ben's take on Houston.  It was much as I had expected given the vibe that Houston had put forth, but it was articulated much more succinctly by a local.  I will attempt to summarize.  Houston is huge and the LeBlancs lived in the suburbs which was 40 minutes from the social part of downtown, so they hardly ever made it down(town).  Most of the suburbs in Houston had developed anemic social centers out of necessity because of how much of a hassle it was to get downtown.  In order to become part of the community you had to make a real effort in the suburban social life, which they had playing softball and the like, but if you missed a season you were sort of out of the loop.  

In Austin (which is my reference for everything, so deal with it) there are relatively few suburbs, if people in the city live in the 'burbs it's either Round Rock or Georgetown.  This means that co-workers that live in the suburbs have a 50% chance of living in your 'burb, so there is always someone you know who is nearby.  Not so in Houston, there are so many self contained suburbs in Houston that you might live near nobody you know or work with, and because of how much landmass Houston takes up it is a hassle to travel from one 'burb to another.  So people rarely venture out of their own self-contained suburb.

We finished up another few beers and decided to call it a night.  I can honestly say that it was one of the most surreal nights I've ever had.  I think it is rare to ever be a completely impartial observers.  On this night I had no responsibility in the event, no stake in the game, and I had free reign of the stadium; it was absolutely cathartic.  It was an interesting mix of familiarity, remembering when I stood on the sidelines as a 16 year old, and spectacle as a stranger witnessing the Friday night lights in Texas for the first time. I wandered around lackadaisically focusing on nothing while all of those around me had a laser focus on the game.

By the end of the night my head was clear and my body was back to business as usual.  I think I may have stumbled onto the ultimate hangover cure basking in those Friday night lights.

Here it is, the ultimate hangover cure: Stand in the eye of the hurricane . . . or the tiger.  It's the thrill of the fight.  Risin' up to the challenge of our rival.  Wait, what was I talking about?

The Long Kiss Goodnight: Austin Conclusion Part 2

Let's get right to it . . .

Place Number 15: Midnight Cowboy: The holy grail of bars in Austin.  It is a hidden cocktail lounge owned by the masterminds behind Alamo Drafthouse.  There is a strict 2 hour time limit, no flash photography, and drinks that will make you wonder what the hell was that swill you've been drinking your entire adult life.

After the brief explanation it was easy to corral the team to Midnight Cowboy.  Who can resist the charms of an exclusive, hidden, speakeasy style cocktail bar?  Nobody I want to meet, that's for damn sure.  Now when I say that Midnight Cowboy is hidden by Jove is it hidden.  The brilliance of Midnight Cowboy's location is that it is hidden in the heart of the touristy district known as Dirty 6th.  After 15 minutes of searching, we sheepishly slid into the Alamo Drafthouse to ask for directions.  In order to protect the sanctity of the establishment I will nay divulge any of the defining characteristic of this magical place, however, even after it was pointed out (literally the helpful young lady at the Alamo took us outside and pointed directly at it) it was still difficult to find.  Very sneaky midnight cowboy, very sneaky indeed.  

We asked a man on the street if we were in front of the fabled Midnight Cowboy not realizing he was the nonchalant ninja doorman for said establishent.  He told us to wait outside for a minute while he checked occupancy.  He proceeded to open the steel metal service door and the solid steel security door to have a peek inside.  He reemerged a few moments later and said we were cleared to enter.

We entered a dimly lit hallway with mega-highback booths flanking us from both sides.  The booths assured absolute privacy for all the patrons and the dim lighting made everything seem . . . more interesting.  I had the distinct impression that every person in every booth was a captivating, interesting person.  I guess highbacks, a claustrophobic setting, and dim lighting casts an aura of self-importance . . . that and an ever increasing level of intoxication and overactive imagination on my end.  

We were led to our booth, took a minute to gawk at the surroundings, and were greeted by our bartender.  Bartender seems to miss the mark a bit here . . . these guys were more akin to alcohol sommeliers.  He handed us our menus, explained the rules (see above) , and then excused himself for a moment to retrieve his tools of the trade.  A moment later he returned with a multi level pushcart with squeeze bottles and a plethora of alcohol then inquired if we were ready to order our first round.  I think he could read our mild apprehension and feeling of being mildly outclassed on our faces, because he began asking us each in turn questions about different types of drinks, alcohols, and flavors that we liked.  

He didn't exactly make recommendations as much as he made conclusions from our answers, and then said the the names of drinks he was about to make.  It felt like our choice in the matter had been rendered null and void.  In fact I don't exactly remember ordering anything, he said something (I'm assuming less for my benefit and more for his own) and then started making a drink.  A little muddling, shaking, straining, and stirring later we all had a drink in front of us.  Each of us lifted our glasses, someone said some amusing words, and we cheersed.  We clinked, and I took my first sip.  Wow, was the only thought that went through my head.  The drink completely relaxed me.  It was though I had drank a a glass of post-hot tub relaxation.  We hailed the drinks as incredible and gave our heartfelt compliments to our master alchemist.  

This is a picture of your imagination.  Midnight Cowboy is better than that.  It is better than you can imagine, punk.

After a little while we fell back into conversation and went over the rest of our plans for the evening.  Brandon, fellow advocate of the old fashioned and bartender at Firehouse had suggested another craft cocktail place called Half Step on the far reaches of Rainey Street.  We agreed on a plan to venture to Rainey Street and toasted once again  Our cocktail crafter interjected for a moment and asked us if we were heading down to Half Step.  Being the attentive reader that you are, you know that we were indeed.  He then offered to take 15% off of our bill if we would deliver a new simple syrup they had been developing down to Half Step to get their take on it.  The discount was well and good, but we had been entrusted with a task to deliver this Wavy Gravy to Half Step.  We had a moral responsibility to get it there safe, it was no longer merely a night out it was a journey, nay, an adventure.  From that moment until the safe delivery of simple syrup we had become the Fellowship of the Wavy Gravy.

Our mount of choice for the journey were a couple of ol' Austin three-seater bicycle carriages, a pedicab to those in the know, and a rikshaw to my friends from the east.  These man powered vehicles splatter the Austin nightscape and are never more than a block away.  They come in varying levels of obnoxiousness ranging from the simple bike and wheeled loveseat to music blaring mobile laser light shows.  We opted for for a couple of the more subdued versions and ventured forth towards Rainey Street.

Having successfully evaded the Nazgûl, we dismounted and entered the Half Step.  Heads held high, we presented the Wavy Gravy to the barkeep.  He turned and added it to table filled with doppelganger squeeze bottles and told us that the two bars did this little exchange quite frequently, and we thought we were special . . . What a buzzkill.  Task completed, we ordered a drink and headed outside to enjoy the beautiful Austin night, but before I continue . . .

Place Number 16: Half Step: A craft cocktail place that occupies a place in the pantheon of Austin craft cocktail bars.  Bartenders rave about it across the city and it is . . . good.  Just good in my opinion.  It is in an old gutted house much like its neighbors on Rainey Street.  Every place on Rainey Street looks like a 3 bedroom family house and it is one of the most unique streets in all of the Austin.

Across from the bar there was a decidedly Austin sight: the food truck park.  We perused the fare and I decided on a miniature bag of donuts that were made through a Rune Goldberg type miniature frying device.  How fun.  With the night quickly waning, we had just enough time to grab two of my favorite, incredibly alcoholic drinks on Rainey Street.  Perhaps not the smartest decision at this point in the night, but definitely necessary.  

First up . . . 

Place Number 17:  The Blackheart:  A New Orleans themed rockabilly whiskey bar.  The inside has the feel of a wild west brothel with the walls adorned with vintage (as in first photograph era vintage) black and sepia erotica.  This place has an incredible back patio, which is one of the best places to catch a band in Austin.  The whiskey selection is extensive and it has the best non-brandy (sacrilege!) and most expensive old fashioned in Austin.

We made the visit a quick one, we were on a timetable you see.  We grabbed some drinks, did a quick tour of the inside and outside and guzzled down our drinks.  The Blackheart definitely deserves a longer linger than we had time for, but we had one last stop on the trek.

Place Number 18: Icenhauer's: An outdoor oriented Rainey Street meeting spot.  The drinks are strong and the backyard fire pit is the perfect place to meet new friends and engage in awkward conversations.  

Ah, Icenhauer's: home of the Emily.  Who is Emily?  She is the most dangerous drink in the city.  Emily is muddled strawberries, basil infused syrup, a dash of lime juice, and a whole lot of Tito's.  No joke, this drink is 80% vodka, but it tastes like a basil sprinkled strawberry.  Emily is the perfect drink to end a night.  Let me rephrase that, Emily will end your night.  It did, we drank it and then (I'm assuming, my memory is a little hazy on the specifics . . . ) time warped to the next morning.

This is a picture of Emily and a knee.  Disregard the knee, but be wary of Emily.  She is amazing, but dangerous.  As Taylor Swift says, " . . . the high is worth the pain."  Don't say I didn't warn you.

The next morning Dave, Andrew, and I groggily emerged from our bunks and did a quick recap of the previous night.  Andrew and I said farewell to Dave as he left to continue his own journey.  I dropped Andrew off at the airport and we sealed the end of the Austin experience with a bro-hug.

 . . . And that's a wrap for Austin.  I feel honor bound to state that all of the events in the Austin experience took place on a Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday.  This was Austin during the week, during the weekend this city gets even livelier and even more vibrant.  This is one of the many, many reasons why I love Austin, it is always alive any time, any day.  The people are great, the bars are inventive and unique, and the food is great and plentiful.  To be honest, the only thing Austin is lacking is a brewpub/distillery scene, but it has started to make an effort.  However, that is one very small demerit, and it's trying bless its heart.

If you haven't been to Austin go . . . soon.  It's changing so quick that this guide may already be irrelevant, but Austin will always be great.  The places will still be there but the crowd may have changed.  So, saddle up, fasten your belt buckle and mosey on down to the best dang place in all of God's green Earth.

The Long Kiss Goodnight: Austin Conclusion Part 1

The long kiss good night . . . such a romantic euphemism for murder.  When I think of the phrase it sets the mental scene of a gun for hire in a dark hotel room.  He's sitting on the edge of the bed with a slight slouch to his spine agonizing over the kill of a close acquaintance.  Years of memories flash through his (or her, gender your imaginary hitman as you like) eyes of intimate conversations, barbecues with families (there's always a barbecue in my head), and other such cliched flashback shots for conveying a close personal relationship. The relationship becomes more tenuous in the montage and there is a clear sense of a fall from grace of the to soon to be murdered (murderee?)  Then, through much mental trepidation and a lament building in his soul, the hitman stands up resolute, dons his duster, does a quick check on his pistol, cocks a round, puts on the safety and strides out of the hotel room with his brows furrowed and his eyes straight.  He leaves the door open for effect, because he's a melodramatic son of a hired gun.  The final shot is a fixed camera angle looking into the hotel room as he walks by and the shot lingers with the empty bed in view now only lit by the open door and street light bleeding through the window.  The scene doesn't break as he walks by, but stays focused on the empty room for five long, hard, pensive seconds.

This is how I felt about leaving Austin.  Not the bang bang kill kill murder a friend part, but it was a marked end of a chapter in my life.  I hated to go, because I knew it was the last time I would see the place as my city.  We had grown apart and it was time for us to head down our diverging paths, Austin had already left me behind and it was high time I continued down my path.  I have put off writing this final two part conclusion (two part conclusions are all the rage these days)  on Austin for an exceptionally long time, because although the chapter is finished, this officially closes and shelves the book.  So, here is part one of the two part conclusion that I call The Long Kiss Goodnight.  Enjoy.

We rejoin the three travelers, myself, Dave the Aussie, and Andrew the Aussie, traveling down the Colorado River away from an anthropmorphic Johnny Cash song towards South Congress.  We are in search of a restaurant for our last meal in Austin.  We found it.  It was this place:

Place Number 12: Perla's: A South Congress seafood staple with a relaxed gulfshore feel.  It is home to the best patio view in all of SoCo and some killer seafood to satiate a sea life carnivorous craving.

Perla's on South Congress (As seen through the eyes of a voyeur)
This is Perla's at its only inconspicuous time; while it's closed.  Once the doors open there can always be people found on the patio drinking Pimm's Cups, enjoying the bounty of the sea, people watching the motley crew of foot traffic on South Congress, and talking about the best way to jibe a sailboat.

Following our surreal conversation with Folsom prisoner number 52743, the Aussie's and I swaggered into Perla's for some mighty fine fixings.  Perla's is a gulf shore transplant relocated to the north end of the SoCo scene.  Everyone not wearing a pastel striped polo or a sundress looks out of place in this little slice of the gulf. Seriously, there is teal everywhere and a mounted marlin inside just to set it over the edge.  I have never been out back of Perla's, but I expect there is a marina moored with yachts and sailboats with seasoned deep sea fisherman regaling landlubbers with tales of the deep blue below.  You can almost smell the ocean spray as you walk onto the patio.  They have those trendy mist sprinklers on the outside to enhance the effect.  How's the food though?  Terrible. Ha, just kidding, it would be monumentally disappointing if a place put this much effort into its ambiance had bad seafood, but luckily it doesn't. In fact, it has in-freaking-credible seafood.  Their bouillabaisse is one of the few foods that I crave.  It is like eating a veritable trawling net of delicious creatures boiled in saffron infused olive oil.  The sauce is so good you could drink it, which I did . . . with a straw.  We ate, we drank, we shared amusing anecdotes as we watched the sunset over South Congress.  While the conversation remained vibrant, the sun faded and was replaced with large-bulbed string lighting.  We took this as our cue to return to the hostel and wash the saline sea breeze from our skin before we embarked in our final night in Austin.

While we were freshening and getting as the kids in the 00's used to say "so fresh and so clean" Dave uttered these magical words, "Mates, I'm going to take it easy tonight, probably just grab a drink downstairs and call it an early night." Now, in the entirety of human history there has never, and I repeat never, been an uneventful night after those words were spoken aloud.  This is the fun-tastic kiss of death.  Tonight was going to be great.

We began our uneventful, dull as dishwater night at:

Place Number 13: CU29: A great craft cocktail bar located just far enough off the beaten path to never be slammed with people.  Great bartenders, great drinks, and copper on every corner.

This is an example of a hand hammered copper sink that can be found in the restroom of a bar in Queens.  The bar of  CU29 is made of this hand hammered copper and its quite incredible.  You may be asking "Cale, why don't you show a picture of the actual bar from CU29?"  First off, mind your own damn business, but to the point . . . because I forgot.  Trust me it's beautiful, or better yet check out the dang place and see for yourself .

We started the night innocuously enough by heading for a drink at CU29.  It's a quiet, dignified place with great drinks, great bartenders, and one particularly fine beard.  It was the perfect place to watch President Obama's ISIS address.  Do you remember the address?  Yeah, I hardly do either.  The President spoke for approximately a half an hour and managed to say next to nothing, which was expected I suppose, but at least the drinks were good.  If you're feeling a little nefarious and a hint spicy try El Dueño.  It's a mescal drink that's dark as sin and will make you feel like a bonafide (albeit successful and  classy given the surroundings) old west train robber.  You can feel the phantom six shooter at your hip after the first sip.  A couple of drinks later we were ready to saddle up with the James-Younger gang and take down a train . . . or head back to the Firehouse.  We decided to head back to the Firehouse.

Place Number 14: Firehouse Hostel Lounge (Wednesday Night Open Mic Night): The infamous bar behind the bookshelf.  A card holding member of the society of elite bars in Austin, great drinks, interesting international crowd, and a Wednesday open mic night that will rock your socks off.

The Firehouse Hostel hosts the most famous open mic night in all of Austin.  It is known for attracting local Austin and visiting artists of the audible variety for their rendition of industry night, music style.  Signup begins 3 hours in advance and the docket is filled roughly 2 hours and 59 minutes before the mic officially opens.  We strode into the lounge and saddled up the bar as the first act was starting and true to the billing they were incredible.  (Almost) Everyone was incredible.  Our bunkmate, Jordan was inspired by a traveling British musician to get up and try his pipes in front of a mic.  Coincidentally, a week prior I had met the traveling musician at this very bar.  We had a long discussion about the current state of marriage where I was force to take, as shocking as it may sound to my close friends, the side of a more traditional view on marriage (I argued for love man, for love in this crazy world).  She was an interesting lass indeed to make my views on marriage seem traditional.  

A Brief Bakkonian View of Marriage in the Modern Era
Please oblige me as I digress into a tangent on the relevance of marriage in the modern day.  I, Cale Bakken, believe that marriage is as relevant today as it has ever been.  Not only are the betrothed able to say to each other that I love your stupid face so much that I want to spend every day for the rest of my life looking at it, but goll dangit I want there to be a room full of people with us so they can all partake in the overflow emotion we have for each other.  The situations are few and far between that we can come together to celebrate something as powerfully positive as love and I  don't believe that it should be marginalized.  The aspiring British alternative siren's argument against marriage was that it is unfair to require someone to commit to another for a lifetime, it's selfish and unrealistic.  To which I retort, not if it's reciprocated, then it's an officially and publicly celebrated institution built on trust, understanding, joy, and of course mutual attraction (wink wink).  It is as essential today as it ever has been and should remain (although altered in its definition) an integral part of our society.  Celebrate love baby, not nihilism.

Now that I have been exposed as a helpless romantic, let's return to Jordan.  He did indeed do an  . . . interesting spoken word, that was not awkward in the least, not in the least . . . But kudos to him for trying something new (and it was painfully obvious that it was new to him).  It took more chutzpah than any of the rest the bunkmates of room 201 had.

Where are my manners, allow me to set the scene at open mic night, the place was a mixture of European hostelers, some of the trendier local Austinites, and a bevy of musicians.  The lights were turned down low, because low lights equal class and attracts starving artists like a fish fry attracts Wisconsinites.  The Aussies and I mingled with the crowd, I proselytized the gospel of the brandy old fashioned, and we met our new friend for the night Leah.

Leah was local Austinite whom frequented the Austin music and was a regular performer at the Firehouse open mic night.  She had recently returned from UC Santa Barbara where she had been a D-1 cross country runner.  I believe she was about to head off to Stanford to save the world . . . what a slouch.  Leah had decided to tag along with us for the night.  The Australian accent has real power in the United States, and I was privileged to be allowed to watch it spin its spell.

Back to me, I had bonded with the bartender, Brandon, over the finer point of the old fashioned (brandy, not whisky you brute!).  I was feeling chummy enough to ask for his expert advice on places to patronize on our last night.  He dropped a fully weaponized mind bomb straight into my brain bunker: since it was a Wednesday, we might . . . just might be able to get into Midnight Cowboy.   *explosion noises* .  I told the Aussie-Austinite gang about this incredibly fortuitous news and they stared at me blankly.  Surely you know of this fabled establishment?  No?  Well then, allow me to explain . . . .

 . . . Next Time, in Part 2 of The Long Kiss Goodnight . . .

Austin Part 4: Pulp Nonfiction

I'm a big fan of schizophrenic storytelling a la Snatch or Pulp Fiction.  It adds a level of depth and immersion.  These stories don't build chronologically towards a causal conclusion.  They abandon the time tested formula of conflict, crescendo, climax and resolution and shuffle the story telling all around.  Many times in these avant-garde style films the conclusion is revealed early (in the case of Memento, in the first fricking scene), but the resolution isn't the point of the story.  In a postmorernist film like Pulp Fiction it would be hard to pull out an actual plot; it's indeed a pulp fiction.  The series of short stories brush past each other and leave the audience to interpret meaning.  Did Quintin Terrantino have a specific meaning intended for the film?  Who cares, it's so open to interpretation that the original intent is no longer important.

So what the hell does this have to with traveling through Austin?  Well as I finished with my last post, as I was dragging myself up to my hostel bed at 7 AM there were events conspiring that would set the tone for the next day, but for now let's skip ahead to 

Later that afternoon . . .

Place Number 9: South Congress Street: Walking this funky street with boot shops, bars, coffee, shops, and famous graffiti is about as Austin as Austin gets.

Early in the afternoon Dave, Andrew and myself parked on South Congress and began urban exploring.  It is easy, and absolutely advised as a tourist, to spend an entire afternoon walking South Congress.  There are plenty of quaint and slightly odd shops to sample and a more than adequate amount of bars and restaurants to keep you fueled.  Situated on the north western corner of the street is Jo's coffee.  It sports arguably the most iconic bit of graffiti in Austin as seen below.

Either the most iconic piece of Austin graffiti or the second most iconic piece of Austin graffiti. The battle rages on between the "i love you" brigade and the weird frog "hi, how are you" regiment.  Austin sure is weird man.  Fun Fact: this is not the original graffiti.  Jo's coffee was vandalized and subsequently painted over the original.  Austin (hipsters) exploded, so they were forced to painstakingly recreate it.  So, everyone who has had the picture taken with this Austin landmark since 2011 know that you are posing with forgery, ya god damn tourists.

We grabbed a couple of coffees, the Aussies enlightened me on the weird Australian take on iced coffee (with milk and God knows what else), and we continued our jaunt down Congress.  Due to the morning's incident I was still wearing the clothing from the night before, and I did not smell pleasant.

We happened into a coffee/eyewear/T-shirt/shoe/jewelry shop called TOMS.  It looks like an old house smack in the middle of South Congress with a mini sign out front that proclaims (or perhaps more accurately whispers) 'TOMS'.  The story is a perfect sell for Austin.  It was started when a traveler in Argentina noticed that many children were shoeless.  So he started this shop with the intent of shoeing the shoe-less South American children.  As the store grew so did the story and the scope of the store, which you can read here: TOMS story.  I immediately loved this place.  So, I bought a shirt.  It ended up being the most expensive T-Shirt I have ever bought, but it probably helped to clothe 10 children AND I now speak 2 words in French (Citoyen du Monde!).  God dammit I'm cultured.

Welcome to TOMS: We're a whitewashed house with vaguely African prints hanging on the walls with metal chandeliers everywhere all culminating in putting shoes on Argentinian children . . . somehow.

I stripped off my old smelly shirt and replaced it with my new classy, multi cultural, philanthropic T-shirt.  I felt like a new, slightly less smelly, man.



Earlier, Lunch time . . 

Although a new T-shirt can help a person feel a modicum cleaner, a great meal can cleanse the soul.  One of my favorite soul cleansing stations:

Place Number 10:  The Noble Sandwich Co: Great sandwiches that won't slow you down.

Earlier in the morning I had been singing the praises of this divine sandwich company, and now after a convoluted and very round about way we had made it to Noble.  The absurdity of the morning had put me in a sour mood, but the sandwiches at Noble are more than a match for a poor demeanor.  Noble's seared beef tongue sandwich is one of my all time favorites.  I ordered it, I ate it, and I was back to my cheery self.  It is the ultimate porcine energy supplement.  The relish in the tongue sandwich is an indescribable taste experience.  It's fresh, but it tastes pickled, it's spicy(?), and fresh.  I think some of the words in the previous sentence are mutually exclusive . . . but Noble packs all these flavors into one "relish".

Insert your imagination here:

Noble Sandwiches are better than that

With our moods recovered and our stomachs comfortably filled we headed to South Congress to make a day of it.


Even Later that Afternoon . . .

The three of us had reached our South Congress limit.  We had scoured the miles of boots at Allen's boots, checked out weird hand made knick knacks, and discovered that Andrew was oddly discerning about the size and feel of his T-shirts.

Shadowing the inaccurately named Colorado River is the Lady Bird Lake Trail.  The trail handrails the chain of lakes known as the Colorado River and creates this awesome natural refuge in the middle of Austin.  We decided to take a brief walk down to the trail to see what the outdoorsy folk of Austin were up to.  Lo and behold the people of Austin were paddle boarding, as they do all day, every day.  A few adventurous lasses were jumping off the 1st street bridge, and you guessed it, paddle boarding to the shore.  They were quick to explain that they were unemployed.  Dave pointed out that Austinites wear unemployment as a badge of honor, which is absolutely true.  There is almost a sense of pity for people if they have to go to work during the day.

After some aimless wandering up and down the lake/river I began to direct our path towards:

Place Number 11: Threadgills: An Austin restaurant with mediocre food, great drink special and incredible gospel concerts, escpecially the Sunday gospel brunch

Enter the hero . . .

We ambled up to the bar and and took residence in three empty stools.  There was only one other man at the bar.  He was an old grizzled Man (with a capital M)  sitting at the bar by himself.  We happened to make it in for happy hour and the price of a beer was $1.08.  Dave was quite impressed by the affordability of the adult beverages and he commented as such.  The old man who was sitting next to me two stools down commented, eyes straight ahead.

"You won't find no better price in Austin."

The three of us would chat amongst ourselves and the old man would throw in his two cents every now and again, but he never looked at us, he always stared straight ahead.  We got to know The Old Man (now a proper noun).  He was a farmer, because, quoting The Old Man,

"It's all I know."

He and I talked about boots, both us having worn them for the majority of our adult lives.  He told us long stories about how cheap jeans used to be, how he had an inside track on cheap boots, and how he would travel wherever he could find work.

The Old Man was a unique, old school, rough and tumble, hard son of a bitch, a type that I have never seen before or since.  He spoke matter of factly about everything and had the most intense look that I have ever seen.  When he said,

"I have an ID card now.  Now if a cop asks me for it, I can show it to him and flip him the bird.  Used to be I would just punch him in the face."

I believed him.  He alluded to his time in prison, about all the dumb stuff he had done as a kid, and on further inspection I could tell he was liberally decorated in prison tattoos.  He had a teardrop tattoo in the corner of his left eye.  If movies have taught me anything, it's that a teardrop tattoo means you killed someone in prison.  Do I know for sure if he ended a man in the joint.  Nope, but I wouldn't bet against it.

I have never met a man like The Old Man before.  He was clearly a hardworking, but oft in trouble American.  He disliked the government, lived to work, and would stop off at a random bar on his way between jobs to talk to people.  That was one of the oddest things to me about the entire situation.  He was clearly there to talk to people, he engaged everyone who was around him.  Sure, there were few topics that he talked about, but that was his purpose.  He stopped off at a bar to get some person to person interaction.

As we sat and talked to The Old Man there was one prevalent thought running through my head.  He was a Johnny Cash song come to life.  He was a hard working American who had made mistakes but kept on moving forward.  He served his time, walked out of Folsom, and picked up where he left off.


What happened that morning . . .


I woke up in my hostel bed to the sound of muffled scurrying.  My other bunk mates were getting ready to start the day, and bless their hears they were trying to be quiet for me.  I opened my eyes and groggily stumbled to the bathroom, to brush my teeth and splash cold water on my face to jolt awake.  I returned from the bathroom to find Andrew and Dave already ready to get to the getting.  I captivated them with tales of exquisite sandwiches and pickle type products from the Noble Sandwich Co.  They were quite receptive when I suggest that we take the short drive up to Noble.  We walked to my car which was conveniently parked in a parking lot behind the hostel.

Key word: was.  Before us lay an empty lot.  My car, my clothes, and every other goodie I had jam packed into cross continental love bug was gone.  I stared in disbelief for a second, not exactly knowing what to do.  Eventually one of us, let's say Dave, spotted a sign about the terms of parking and whom to call said the unfortunate circumstance should occur.  As we were reading the sign, a parking enforcement . . . man (he did not look official to any degree) walked up to the lot.  He asked us if were were looking for the black BMW.  Why yes, yes we were.  He informed us that had been towed earlier this morning.  In fact, the first warning had been dropped at 7 AM.  Injury to insult as they say.  I still take issue to the usage of "warning" in this instance, because I wasn't warned of shit.  More accurately put, a note was placed on the car.

The parking enforcement man, let's call him Bob, said the number on the sign was correct and to call for pickup.  Thanks for nothing Bob.  I punched in the number and spoke to a woman with a loose grasp on English.  Quick interjection: I consider myself an exceedingly patient person, normally I am a paragon of cool.  I can count on one hand the amount of times I have lost my cool.  This particular morning I would not be able to retain my cool.  I was not particularly nice to the lady whom I spoke with at the impound, but she was rude so nuts to her.

After an exhausting conversation I was able to decypher where the impound was located.  Dave and Andrew were kind enough to tag along to the impound.  A couple of proper quality chaps.

At the Impound . . .

The taxi dropped us out in front of what can only be described as the set of Mad Max.  This impound was not legit, it looked like the junkyard in The Sandlot, but with more car husks, surrounded by a chain link fence with razor wire, and no James Earl Jones.  I am entirely convinced that if I would've waited a couple more hours to pick up my car it would have been missing a few tires, the hood, and the stereo.  I completed the transaction and a man whom was probably called Jethro pulled my car around.

It was no worse for the wear, except for a some white numbers marked along a window.  We loaded up and sat staring at the prison door as it jerkily creaked open.  We stared straight ahead, beyond the hellscape that we had found ourselves.  As the the gate finally swayed and clacked to a halt we moved towards freedom.  I hesitated, but only for a moment.

Before us was Austin.  The path was clear.

Austin Part 3: Riding the Rails

The best way to kick start a great night is with a great meal and a great drink.  Is it possible to have an incredible outing without?  Of course, but I wouldn't recommend it.

With our great meal in stomach, we enjoyed an after dinner, booze flavored coffee.  We watched the day crowd turn into the night crowd from Halcyon's fantastic viewing platform.  With darkness approaching, we morphed from men about town (daytime version) to men about town (night time version.)  Our night time selves started the night at: 

Place Number 7: Peché - One of the best fancy cocktail bars in Austin.

Peché refers to itself as a preprohibition/absinthe bar.  There is a a long story that the owner, who is usually present at the bar, will tell you.  For the case of this story read "preprohibition" as "fancy cocktail".  The drinks are grand, but the real appeal is the bartenders.  Correction, the real appeal is usually bartenders.

I would love to say that I found this joint on one of my daytime excursions through Austin, but alas the credit goes to my sister.  She had come down to visit me during Easter weekend.  I had the misfortune of being employed at the time, so after retrieving her from the airport I jet set to work and dumped her in downtown Austin with a key to my apartment.  When I returned to Austin I found my slightly more intoxicated sister at this gem of a place.  Luckily she was in good spirits . . . and was being aggressively hit on by the owner of said establishment, which worked out well for our bar tab.  

When I lived in Austin a bartender at this joint won bartender of the year from some publication.  I'm not exactly sure how prestigious bartender awards are on a scale from buzzfeed list to the Pulitzer for Exemplary Achievment in Mixological arts, but it briefed well.  The bartenders are incredibly knowledgeable and can craft a dynamite cocktail from a couple of adjectives and possibly some nouns.  For example tell them: I'm feeling sleepy and I've been watching the Walking Dead for 36 straight hours and bam, Corpse Reviver in your face.  

I always try to stop at whenever I'm back in town.  I had been by the previous week and had met a bartender who was dealing with some financial issues.  By financial issues I mean that her roommate robbed her and charged hundreds of dollars to her credit cards.  It would just so happen that when Dave, Andrew, and myself entered the bar on this night this unfortunate soul was tending the bar.  For the sake of this story I will refer to her as Penny.

The story begins as we mosey up to the bar to order a cocktail, err three cocktails.  I recognized Penny and asked about her unfortunate situation.  She was surprised that I knew about her situation and I was a little offended she didn't remember me (Me!), but it fueled the conversation.  She revealed a delightful anecdote about running across the street to a new bar inside a parking garage, aptly named Garage.

A quick clarification for future understanding.  Penny was snotty and curt, however she had two redeeming characteristics.  1.) She smiled and laughed on occasion and 2.) She was pretty.  A coworker of hers later described her as such: "She's a bitch, but she's cute enough to get away with it."  An apt description.  As our merry band was squaring our bill, Andrew observed Penny swipe his card twice.  This (greatly abridged) conversation ensued:

Andrew: "Did you just swipe my card twice?"

Penny: "Yep, I rang it up wrong the first time."

Andrew: "Well, can I get the receipt saying the first one was cancelled?"

Penny:  "No."

Andrew:  "What, why?

Penny: "That's not how we do it here.  I can get my manager to explain it."

Andrew:  "Sure, I don't understand why you can't give me a receipt."

The manager came and the conversation lasted for another 10 minutes.  Dave and I stewed in our ever increasing awkwardness, made forced conversation, and periodically looked around the room to ensure the decor hadn't changed.  Andrew gave up (thank the Maker) and we went to a happier place.  This place:

I don't know if I should be posting this, but . . . this is the sign
for the incredibly well hidden Garage Bar.  It's super secret.

Place Number 8:  Garage Cocktail Bar - A lounge style cocktail bar in the middle of a parking garage and possibly in an alternate dimension.

Garage was located in one of the ubiquitous concrete behemoths that sprinkle the landscape of downtown Austin, however we could not find it.  Clearly, this bar was doing a great job hiding itself from all the riff raff.  

Luckily we found a kindly parking attendant who pointed us towards our destination, and thus prevented us from being deemed riff raff.  The only identifier for Garage, is a neon sign that clearly states "Garage".  Boy were our faces red, having missed such an obvious indicator.  We hesitantly walked past the sign and into an outdoor foyer.  The bar opened up to a long lounge style bar.  I remember jazz playing in the background, or maybe it was in my head.  It was a very swank place indeed.

Andrew was still feeling a bit off kilter about the credit card fiasco, so our stay in the hidden lounge was short.  We decided to move to a scene with happier vibes:

Austin Music Scene:
People identify Austin with live country music.  Although the country is great, it is just the tip of the iceberg.  It has an incredibly eclectic music scene.  Live music can be found at almost every bar on almost every night.  Here is a brief, but all too short breakdown of some of the places that have Cale Bakken's seal of approval in the Live Music Capital of the World.  The White Horse: Super eclectic crowd, always a great country band.  Firehouse Hostel Lounge: Wednesday night open mic night, this where all the local performers in Austin come together to cut loose with other artists, the signup is filled 3 hours in advance.  Saxon Pub: Incredibly intimate setting where local Austin legends perform experiences, these are full scale entertainment extravaganzas.  Black Heart: A new favorite of mine, outdoor small venue with killer shows and a vintage/pinup/rockabilly vibe.  There are so many other places, such as Donn's Depot, Austin City Music Hall, Maggie Mae's, Threadgill's, The Broken Spoke, Elephant Room, Stubb's BBQ, and dozens of other great top notch joints.  I'm not even going to touch all the music festivals, which are great and as varied as the venues.  The great thing about Austin  isn't the huge amount (and it is a huge amount)of music venues, it's how unique all the great ones feel.  There is a place and vibe in Austin for everyone to groove to.  

Place Number 3: The White Horse (at night)

A quick cab ride later and we found ourselves back at the White Horse.  It was packed with its standard nonstandard crowd. Dave was hell bent on finding bluegrass in Austin, country music was playing for an indefinable demographic of Austinites honky tonking the night away.  Not exactly bluegrass, but I didn't have the heart to tell Dave.  Needless to say the crowd was as lively as ever and people were happy.

Andrew and I slipped off to a few other staples (Yellow Jacket Social Club and Whisler's, see Austin Part 1 for a brief description of said rockin' joints) and returned a few drinks later.  Bar time was called and we cabbed it back to the hostel to the familiar scene of travelers hanging around outside chatting.  Always a lively bunch, the hostel crowd, and the conversation was as varied as the people.  As Andrew and Dave slipped off to bed I remained engaged into conversation with, Veronica, a young traveler from Los Angeles and an old hippie, Jordan, who was on his first Austin adventure.

Traveling surprises a person with the incredible and unexpected continuously.  The narrative of my night seemed pointed towards a story of drinking and dancing into the wee hours, but that's not how it ended.  The night for ended watching the sun come up across 6th street.  I spent 4 hours chatting with this girl about topics more personal than strangers usually do.

It is deceptively easy to open up to someone who you expect to never see again.  If, however the unexpected does happen and you do cross paths with the fellow traveler, there is already a deep connection.  We ended our chat at 7 in the morning so she could grab her things to catch a train back to L.A.  On further reflection she may have been traveling as a hobo, in fact the more I reflect I'm pretty sure she jumping the rails back to Cali.

I retired back to my bunk profoundly content.  Little did I know that around the time that I was retiring to bed a series of events was beginning that would shape the next day's events.  However, that is for the next time.

Takeaway: A great meal had led to a great coffee and cigar, which had led to a great drink, which had led to hidden parking garage lounge, which had led to some honky tonking, which had led to an incredible 4 hour conversation with a person whom I may never see again.  Did you follow the causal connections?  Me either, but sometimes your just have to hop on the train and ride the rails.