When my sister informed me that my mother had relocated to Houston, I was not terribly excited about the news. I’d never been to Texas, but I had been told nothing good by any of my friends and associates. My boss calls Houston “Hellston.” My old roommate Paul, who’d made frequent physics related trips to Dallas, complained about trying to find any semblance of vegetarian food in the city. I have heard great things about Austin, and that it is basically a much bigger (Texas-sized portion) Lawrence. But aside from Austin, I haven’t had any particular interest in visiting other locales in the Lone Star State.
Driving through a (tilty) downtown Dallas.
The road dictates life in Texas. The first thing visible is the billboards – they’re larger and taller than billboards I’ve seen in any other state, since they are designed to be seen from the road. Sure, the billboard clusters aren’t quite as dense as they are in, say, Missouri (where you can hardly throw a Roman candle without setting a billboard on fire), but they’re there, and they’re HUGE. Then came endless strip malls. And What-a-Burgers (I tried to keep a tally but the boys told me to give it up after half an hour).
What does this crazy Texan-construction-speak mean?
Endless powerlines, strip malls, and – um. A place where you can get a “Thai massage” with your coffee? How convenient!
According to the author of the Houston WikiTravel page, who seems to be similarly disenchanted with the city, unchecked sprawl has resulted in a city spread out over a disproportionately large area to its population. Also, forget about any semblance of public transit. You simply can’t go without a car in Houston. The few people I did see walking on the roadsides, out of necessity rather than choice, looked naked without any protective vehicular enclosure. Not that I felt much safer being in a car, really.
I can’t say Houston was entirely without its charms, however. For there was the presence of this:
IKEA: all the charm of Sweden, all the cheapness of China!
A Swedish wonderland, where I purchased this, the highlight of my trip:
After much hemming and hawing, I got the red one.
Report: the furbag is quite taken with the cat tent and is often spotted poking his happy little head out of it. Will post evidence once I take photos that aren’t blurry and don’t showcase the current untidiness of my apartment.
Another aspect of Houston that I appreciated was the big, no, immense population of Vietnamese immigrants who have settled in the area. Many of the Vietnamese expatriates in Southern California, weary of high living expenses, have fled to Houston, lured by the prospect of cheap housing and job opportunities. Yes, being Houston, the area is still full of strip malls, but ones that cater to Vietnamese customers:
That’s a (South) Vietnamese flag, with the yellow background and three red stripes.
Unfortunately, since this trip was rather brief and I was without a car (the boys had it most of the time to visit their buddy), I didn’t get to explore this area that much. I do have an upcoming Christmas visit to endure; I expect that I’ll get plenty of chances to eat more delicious Vietnamese food on the next trip!
Another Houston highlight – while flipping through their buddy’s Teach for America Guide to Houston, the boys discovered that there is actually a Lord of the Rings themed restaurant. I personally have been a gigantic LOTR nerd since middle school, and was lucky to be in the company of other dorks, so of course we had to go.
Yes, that thar is a hobbit themed cafe.
The saddest part of all: our reaction was that the Hobbit Hole cafe was NOT DORKY ENOUGH. That’s right. We went in and were dismayed at finding regular food on the menu. Nary a mention of lembas, the elvish waybread. Not even a drop of damned mead to be found. I mean for chrissakes, they could have just wrapped up a luna bar in a palm leaf. Did they even have avocados in Middle Earth?
(At this point feel free to avenge my dignity and kill me.)
Finally, it seems as though Houston, of all places, has a thriving folk art community. Take this house, for instance, constructed entirely of beer cans:
Someone had to put away a LOT of crummy beers to make this thing.
The second stop on our folk art tour, what is known as the Orange Show:
In front of the Orange Show.
The Orange Show is…interesting, to say the least. It’s not quite an amusement park, though appearances would lead one to believe that it started as such. Let’s back up. The show’s creator, Jeff McKissack, was an orange enthusiast and welding hobbyist. He bought this property with the intent of opening a beauty parlor (his unsuccessful gambit to attract the ladies), but unfortunately tried to get into the beauty parlor business during the height of hippie couture, when nobody was even interested in cutting their hair, let alone brushing it. Somehow he hit upon this…alternate plan.
A sweet welcome from McKissack.
Useful orange information.
McKissack offered other, non-orange related advice as well. Of the senile rambling grandpa variety, of course.
The show was created as a platform for McKissack to spread the gospel about oranges. He set up this structure, containing his welded sculpture tributes to the orange, and included useful factoids about his beloved citrus fruit. The “show” itself was to consist of McKissack lecturing the public about oranges, with a woman in the background playing piano and a man dancing (not sure whether he was wearing an orange suit).
Stage where the lectures would take place.
Scary clowns love oranges too.
One problem with attendance might have been, I dunno, using a clown from hell as your spokesperson? For oranges?! I’m surprised there wasn’t a lingering citrus fruit phobia among kids in the area around this time.
The show was likely less stellar than its surroundings.
McKissack expected thousands of people to come to the show on the weekends. The best it ever did was opening night, when almost 200 people came to see what was up. Months later, he died of heartbreak. R.I.P. McKissack, you would have done better in Lucas, KS perhaps.
Warhead trailer next to the Orange Show.
Then, the final stop on our folk art tour was a visit to the Art Car Museum. Houston, it seems, is the Art Car Capital of the world. Makes sense when you think about it – everyone has cars, so why not the artists? Discontent with the typical Range Rovers and Hummers, the artists applied their vision to these beasts of transport:
Pimped out ride.
Houston Art Cars even have cupholders on the outside.
Inside the museum, there was an excellent collection of artists’ responses to war. Many of the pieces were targeted towards the current war in Iraq, obviously, and there were several of these that made powerful statements. The best one, which I did not photograph, was in a room of its own and consisted of several little dioramas with puppets, in poses replicating the torture photos released from Abu Ghraib. One of the more inhuman and shameful acts committed during this conflict, perpetrated by the “good guys.” It’s easy to glorify war, as long as you ignore images like these.
As American as apple pie.
Hm, that’s convenient.
Hanging outside the museum. The parking sign isn’t actually part of the piece; the museum happens to be butted right up against a gas station.
The boys got tired of art and decided to play poker on their I-pods. Against dogs.
Ultimately, while Houston might not be my favorite city – far from it, in fact – towards the end of my brief exposure to the city, I started to understand what draws people to it. In an age of highways and technology, this is the new Wild West: a place where construction is unfettered, the land of no zoning laws and freedom of movement (as long as you own a car). Immigrants are drawn to the city because anyone can make it here, whether you be an enterprising Vietnamese sandwich maker, a Swedish corporation, an immigrant from Mexico who can’t speak a lick of English, or just some crazy orange-lovin’ loon with too much beer and too much time on his hands. Busty women of all colors, shapes and sizes can find employment in one of the ubiquitous Hooters establishments – given that they have the minimum requirements, of course.
And no matter who you are or where you come from, in this state you are now a Texan. This apparently means you have free reign to idle at 65 in the left lane, ignoring the frustrated honking and irritation of those lowly peon drivers from other states who may be directly behind you. Don’t mess with Texas.