I spent last week in Austin and on my last day there, with a few hours to go before my flight home, I did the walk from deepest downtown over the bridge all the way down South Congress to the legendary Allen’s Boots, Jo’s Coffee and Güero's Tacos. I wanted to visit all three, in the sunshine which we had been warned all week was about to be replaced by a humdinger of an ice storm.
There was a lot to love about Austin; the art, the food, the bats, the grackles with their mad eyes, the architecture, the weirdness, but mostly the people. I’d been told all my life about Southern Hospitality; by my Mum and Dad especially, who were adventurous travellers ‘til only a few years ago, and particularly loved exploring the quieter towns and side-streets of the States. I’d never been to Texas, but we’ve recently been gorging on a few Westerns, reminded of how much we love a good TV gun battle, an outraged saloon bar woman with 60s hair and a bit of Clint side-eye. So yes, when asked, I had to go.
I talked to people almost non-stop, in the lift, in the shops, on the street, in the bar, in the Uber. EVERYONE chatted, in the most welcoming and friendly way - and usually before they heard the British accent, which can often amusingly be the trigger for a friendly and curious chat. I can’t remember the last time I felt to welcomed by a bunch of people I’ve never met before in my life. Every face and voice different.
One such chap was Adam. Parked outside Allen’s Boots with his little black and gold typewriter on a tiny table and wearing a hat with jewel-coloured eyes underneath, he asked if I’d like a poem writing for me. Yes, I said; yes, I certainly would. He asked for a topic to get him started. Hmmm. What to request? I pondered. I’d spent most of my walk reflecting on how, within the same ten minute space, I’d become newly fixated on the Waymo driverless cars I’d seen all over the city (Austin being among the first to implement them), desperate to ride in one, all eye-widening invention, haunted tech and firmly reaching back to us from A Joyful Imaginary Future, while simultaneously sobered by a conversation I’d had with a Planned Parenthood lady on the street with whom I’d discussed the ongoing impact of the rollback of Roe vs Wade in her state, and the work her organisation was doing to push back on that. There you go, I said to the poet; forwards, and backwards, all in one walk and thought bubble. That’s your topic.
Here is the poem he wrote. I think he did very well.
I paid him for his creation, of course, and we chatted for another ten minutes or so before I went into the boot shop and browsed the beautiful hand-made boots and hats I would never buy and couldn’t afford even if I wanted to. But I could try them on, so I did, and felt like a kid for a bit, taking a goosey selfie in the changing room, and thinking that this is what travel is anyway, isn’t it? You try a place on, see how it feels, and you take it off again, taking a little piece of every place with you and absorbing it into your being.
Clutching my poem, I headed into Jo’s Coffee and stared at their famous wall as I waited for my Cortado. And despite all of the reasons why I might not have, all the reasons I was warned against going, and never at a more urgent time to be reminded of the joy of meeting humans outside your own little sphere of existence, I felt it in that moment. I really did.
