|
Austin Texas - December 6-10, 2001
Still full of
Guero's Mexican quesadillas, tacos, chalupas and veggie mix, the four of
us piled in he sporty Grand Prix and I took to the wheel, with New
Braunfels and a Texas style weddin' complete with a Texas style barbecue
on the horizon, only hours away. It's fairly effortless driving on the
highways in Texas - over the top speeding is, surprisingly, not
practiced too much, and you only have to really concentrate on exits -
which pop up on both sides of streets without much warning. Also a pain
are the intersections just off the highways - usually convoluted criss-crossed
roads with extremely long lights. Even the yellows stay yellow longer,
which made some of my Irish driving instincts rise back to the surface.
Quite a few times folks raised an eyebrow and straight up expressed some
genuine shock at how long the light was red before I made the turn.
Patience is a virtue, especially for those drivers waiting for the
green.
New Braunfels was a larger sprawling highway
town of fast food places (Jack in the Box, Whattaburger) with a nice
downtown and enough traffic at rush hour to spoil anyone's day. After
meeting up with Becky and Matt at the hotel, Donnie and I decided to
head on out to pick up some goods through town, Jodie tagged along,
Donnetta slept off lunch and her flight in. We hit the frontage roads,
the liquor store, where I was mistaken for a Hess gasoline employee.
We also stumbled upon a corner of the seemingly small
Schlitterbahn Water Park,
and started back around rush hour, thinking the wedding was at seven.
It wasn't, and Donnetta made sure we got our acts together as we
strolled in the door around 10 past 5. By 6 we were sitting pretty at
the wedding, having enough time beforehand to run into the nervous
groom while I ran into a cactus.
Decked out in my
western wear and newfound hillbilly beard, I raised a few eyebrows of
some folks I hadn't run across in ages - old roommate Curt Keester and
crazy hippies Nick and Linda. Nick did some hair work of his own -
spending the last four years growing some deadly dreads. We scurried
to our seats and let the Texas heat build a small sweat on our
foreheads. The guitarist at the outdoor setup played some understated
songs to keep the crowd going as everyone piled in - among them was
Yellow Bird. Not exactly the Yellow Rose of Texas, I was thrust back
to some of my final, desperate days in Cork when the song last held any
meaning for me. Kind of a melancholy number for a wedding, but
anything Harry Belafonte can sing makes for good music anytime. But,
things got formal fast, as Christin headed up a candlelit runway to the
Here Comes the Bride song, vows were exchanged, with some dramatically
characteristic pauses and smiles from the main participants, and soon
enough everything was over, and another pair of friends were now
irrevocably joined.
There was enough
time to sip some beers and relax before the next big event - the
reception at Gruene (pronounced Green) Hall. As we pulled up to the
Oldest Dance Hall in Texas, the white Christmas lights sparkled and
added another layer of charm to the whole affair. It was nice to have a
diversion, as my inept parking skills forced us to take a few loops
around downtown until I settled on the first spot we had seen. Entering
the dance hall, the wooden floor, wooden walls, and paint chipping off
everything made your jaw drop at the sheer site. A stage stood ready
for the rockabilly stage, and the scenes that must have played out in
this hall over the last 100 years must have been something. The chicken
wire covering one wall to the side, along with the ancient advertising
for beer and gasoline just made everything feel allll-riite. Dinner was
served - the buffet consisted of a few ribs thrown onto your plate,
covered with ample amounts of BBQ beef, drenched in sauce, with a side
of beans. As full as I was from lunch, the meal blew us away - the beef
was cooked to perfection, the sauce was intense, and my Texas belt
buckle scored up some points with the blondie serving the beef. The
reception was a crazed mix of drinking beer, chatting up old times,
meeting complete strangers who've read my Ireland tales, and getting a
few moments with the bride and groom, all while the rockabilly band
played on. They were an intense lot - incredible sound, wearing some
respectable, comfortable and sharp fifties stylings who threw in some
Johnny Cash at all the right moments. NO matter the beer intake, the
conversations, etc., everything always seemed to loop back in some grand
fashion to the band and the dance hall.
The night rolled
on effortlessly, through some toasts and the traditional wedding events,
(I did not catch the garter), and soon enough the local sheriff was
standing by the door watching the proceedings. I never quite figured
out his presence, but it was time to wisk Paul and Christin off to Paris
and Barcelona. The car, decorated with ample Christmas grandeur,
including some flashing antlers on the dashboard, pulled up and Paul
just laughed nervously and in good fashion - 'And it's decorated.' His
voice picked up from a quiet aside to a louder surprised tone, 'That's
my mom's car!'
They sped off to
their new lives, I sped out to a new pub. My nerves frayed with
Donnie's co-piloting, I eventually steered us to the next meeting place
- an 'Irish' pub complete with European soccer scarfs and an 11:30 last
call. In my pretentious Euro-trash moment of my life, Donnie turned to
me after ordering his beer and pointed and laughed at the West Ham
United scarf over the bar. I looked at him, confused, and said, "yeah,
it's English League soccer, so what?". He looked at me with dismay and
a scolding sadness and told me it was a funny name. What a difference a
year makes. The next day arrived after some high schoolish high jinks at
the Comfort Suites. We headed back to the historical district to take
in the sights and sounds of the relaxed tourist trappings that included,
among other things, antique shops, deer processing centers, beef jerky,
and t-shirts. We made plans to eat at the Grist Mill Restaurant, but
managed a couple shops before heading under the water tower to hit the
old mill. Donnie and I both spotted the Grist Mill t-shirt that had a
Chicken Fried Steak and Margaritas as its menu selections. Our mouths
watering, we headed over. Seated in deluxe, but chilly, accomodations
overlooking the remnants of the brick house mill, Donnie ordered his
drink first - a margarita. All joking about ordering the menu the
t-shirt suggested, I followed suit and I think both of our minds were
made up before we sat down, despite the deluxe menu before our eyes.
When the time came to order food, Donnie got a chicken fried steak, I
ordered one as well, but with a side of onion rings. When the food
finally arrived after finishing the salads beforehand, Donnie and I both
admired the big chunks of pepper on the chicken fry, the onion rings
were as large as my head. First bites can tell a lot, and this was
sublime steak. The onion rings blew away their already deadly
appearance, and the table was thrust into eating mode. Jodie sat beside
herself in the corner, and Donnetta 'planned' her meal around desert -
she ate half her steak, saved the rest for take home, and waited,
somewhat impatiently, for the time for desert. Donnie worked on his
Texas sized steak, I kept working on mine, throwing in some onion rings
and a few groans of delight here and there for good measure. Donnetta
enlisted Jodie's help on picking a desert, and ordered her pecan pie as
I put the final bites of steak in my mouth. The waitress delivered her
piece of the pie, and I impulsively asked for a chocolate brownie,
without looking at a menu. The waitress, surprised, the table, falling
over, listed off a novel of ingredients - pralines, ice cream, I really
didn't hear too many of them. I reiterated my order of chocolate
brownie and settled for ice cream and whipped cream on top. We walked
out of there somehow, purchasing some souvenir t-shirts, and made a
quick sweep of the antique shops, and I bought a 75 year old diary of
some rich young woman who liked to play a lot of tennis, and took a
three month summer trip to Europe. I'm going to fictionalize the story
into a tawdry tale that ends on December 21, 1926, the last entry, two
days after the entry that says, "Rita hit me in the head with a hammer".
Sex, money, murder, it's
got it all. After picking up some beef jerky (and washing it down with
some red cream soda), we hit the road on full stomachs again, we headed
north back up to Austin, stereo cranked.
CLICK TO
CONTINUE TO PART THREE...
|
