A Tale of Two Cities (and a heck of a lot of empty space in between)

My apologies to the dearly departed Mr Dickens for this title but it was just too tempting. I will avoid the temptation though to borrow his opening sentence, which begins, "It was the best of times, it was the worst of times," and then meanders on for another 73 words.

Because our recent trip to Houston and Austin, Texas, was really, and surprisingly, the best of times. Yes, it was too hot - generally in the mid-30s.  And, yes, when in Texas, there is little choice but to do what the Texans do: worship at the shrine of the almighty motor vehicle.  (There were too many speeding cars on 10-lane motorways, on the wrong side of the road, to make long distance driving enjoyable, but  - cleverly - I had left my driver's licence at home, along with the rest of my wallet, so was assigned the navigator role.)

We flew to Houston in Cuddle Class (I think Air NZ call them sky couches but you can imagine) 10 days ago almost on a whim. Paul Simon was playing there on his final world tour, Homeward Bound. Yes, a world tour that doesn't include Australia and New Zealand, but we forgave the man for that. He has provided the soundtrack to our lives after all - a most remarkable musician, whose performance left me feeling bereft.

Spotted in motorway pit-stop.
I can't wait to write the sequel ...

And we're loyal fans, having seen him in concert in Auckland (with Artie) and in New Plymouth (with Sting) so why not Houston?

The Auckland concert a few years back was also a highlight for the oddest of reasons. Partway through a nostalgic rendition of 'Bridge over Troubled Water', there was an audio-visual blackout. All sound was lost. But within a bar or two, the audience picked up the lyrics and sang lustily along with Paul and Art until those poor AV techies got their act together. Unforgettable.

While in Houston, we did our best to find petrol-free ways of getting around. We rode B-Cycles to visit air-conditioned museums (go on, ask me about Sam Houston, or the NASA space program, or why Astroturf is so named...), though at $3 per 30 minutes the city bike-share scheme was pricey.

We walked on sidewalks damaged by regular flooding and upthrusting tree roots to our local, air-conditioned coffee shop. We rode two buses home from a stellar performance of The Sound of Music, waiting for 20 minutes between rides in a flimsy metal bus shelter while a ferocious thunderstorm played out with full pyrotechnics overhead.

As a local put it, Texans survive the intense heat of  their summer by shuttling from one air-conditioned space to another: home - car - work - shopping mall - home. The homeless don't have that luxury, of course, so make do with park benches wherever they can find shade. I could only wonder, while huddled in that metal box, if these folk had found shelter from the storm in time.

Historic couple stand in front of
 historic Mission Control,  NASA
Space Center, Houston

Urbane Austin, some three hours of crowded expressways and empty horizons from Houston, was a delightful contrast to petrol-head Houston. It brands itself officially as the live music capital of the world, but has also adopted the slogan Keep Austin Weird in response to big corporates such as Oracle and Whole Foods setting up head offices there.

Austin also specialises in hipster cafes and bike commuters. Our apartment building just happened to be next door to the coolest of coffee shops. As frequent visitors (no more than twice a day though) we raised the average age of its clientele by two decades every time we walked in. And, of course, immediately lowered its hipster status to zero. But the bearded and bow-tied young men behind the counter were genuinely welcoming,  not to mention kind when we both, on separate occasions, broke plates and cups. They would have put such clumsiness down to our funny accents and advancing years, I guess.

"Yes we did" - on Houston wall

Texas does history super-sized. There is so much of it, from the early Spanish explorers, missionaries and native Americans, through to horrific battles with Mexico and declarations of independence - all of it recorded with great pride in gigantic air-conditioned edifices.  In Austin, we met a senior couple immaculately dressed in period costume as Mr and Mrs Early Settler. While she role-played a Texan heroine, Susanna Dickinson, to me, Bruce chewed the fat with Mr ES. Now, as you can imagine, Tour Leader was under strict instructions to avoid discussing politics with the locals. So he was surprised to be asked how the rest of the world viewed recent events in the United States. A circumspect response was called for but they eventually found plenty of common ground. Paradoxically, this Texan was a gun-owning patriot (he showed Bruce his licence to carry a concealed weapon) very concerned about the damage being done to his beloved country.

Did I mention we saw dinosaurs? Meet T-Rex...

And that about sums up our experience, brief as it was - paradoxical. We met kind, friendly people, some of whom must have voted for their cartoonish President, gas-guzzling drivers who were unfailingly courteous to cyclists and pedestrians. As Tour Leader keeps reminding me, Trump is not the cause; he is a symptom.

San Antonio Riverwalk

As a postscript, we also spent a night in San Antonio before returning to Houston's George Dubya Bush Airport. If I'd mentioned it earlier, it would mess with the title of the blog of course. We can't be having that. Here, we found a vibrant central city and more history than you could shake a stick at. 'Remember the Alamo!' was the Texan war cry in the final battle for independence from Mexico.

Go on, ask me about the Alamo.