Only This Morning We Were In Texas, And Now Here We Are In Texas

I'd nearly forgotten the chief argument against Motel 6–the towels. After grabbing a shower and airdrying (principally), we meet up with Sara's friend Kasee, whom Sara has just helped move to Austin (her raison d'etre for being there, and the original impetus for this whole trip). Kasee is thin and has bobbed blonde hair and is rather sharp (tongue in particular). We wander downtown, batward.

The state capitol is reported to be taller than the U.S. capitol. Upon inquiring after "localish brews" at the TexMex Cafe, I was referred to Shiner Bock–which I understand to be the offical beer of Texas; as such, it was just a bit like being offered a Foster's in Australia–appropriate, but hardly interesting.

The bats were a bust–or, at any rate, recalcitrant. We waited on the bat bridge, just past the official bat t-shirt stand. Sara and Kasee have actually attended the bat viewing on two previous occasions (once on purpose). The previous night precipitation threatened, and there was some concern that "the bats were going to be called because of rain." On our night there, however, by the time the sun had been down a half hour, the bats had still not pulled their normal maneuver of squirting out from under the bridge in a thin black cloud, and swooping down the length of the river. But they did do endless fuzzy circles underneath the bridge and at its periphery, with the odd bat looping in close (to the terror of humble chronicler, bringing to mind the film that Bela Lugosi and Alfred Hitchock might have made together). At any rate, the sunset, and the view from the bridge (okay, and the glimpse of the bats) were nice. Though, I imagine the folks on the three paddlewheeler bat cruises in the Austin River were not so philosophical about the miscue.

At the AAA office in Austin–on the market for Mexican auto insurance and travel permits–Sara and I discuss a theory of global trickle-down economics. My notion is that as prosperity continues to sky-rocket in the first world, first-worlders will continue to increase their rate of travel. Of course, a great deal of what they do by way of touristing is to spend tourist dollars; in their way, spreading the wealth. As this picks up, third worlders who would otherwise have been toiling in the fields might find themselves more gainfully employed in what (in this country) we would refer to as the service sector. In this way, folks at all levels on the (staggeringly broad) economic scale might rise a few notches. Imperialistic; condescending; but hopeful none-the-less. Sara refers to third as the "Third World As Our Amusement Park" theory of globalization.

The Triple-A folks were cool, btw. There's something nice about a non-profit, or advocacy, organization–"please let us help you" (to use Sara's words again). Although, in this case, they are advocating something I abhor (the car culture), still I am hypocritically delighted to make use of their fine services.

Driving through the south part of Texas, we laconically lament our lack of automotive repair skills (this is foreshadowing, folks). I was noting that I have been foregoing any serious bicycle touring until such time as I take the time to learn some bicycle maintenance skills (touring and hoping nothing goes wrong is impractical). I add that to a certain extent the same applies to auto travel. I confess my ongoing, and increasing, love affair with skills and learning. It's hackneyed to note that "knowledge is power," but being in the computer business (where employers unwaveringly, and unflinchingly, pay you more for every new thing you know) really drives the point home. I paraphrase for Sara Robert Heinlein's quote that "a human being should be able to butcher a hog, plan an invasion, conn a ship, set a bone, balance accounts, change a diaper, build a wall, program a computer, cook a tasty meal, comfort the dying, give orders, take orders, fight efficiently, die gallantly. Specialization is for insects."

We passed through San Antonio, which looks about like you would expect. Like (seemingly) all Texas cities, it has an efficient highway system. South Texas is flat and rolling, scrubbily barren–the highway is limned with puffy trees like shrubs writ large. Later, we pass through some very arid cropland sans crops (soil resting?). There are mighty crosswinds. The bathrooms are deteriorating rapidly. Judging by the graffiti at our San Antonio stop, the service station restroom there is obviously hotly contested real estate in local gang turf battles.

We approach Mexico. It is strange, we consider, to be willingly and knowingly driving south into a much more dangerous and shoddy-looking place –when so many (obviously more sensible) people are endeavoring mightily to perform the reverse operation. This is just, of course, our fear and doubt talking. Also provincialism, oh, and jingoism. Mustn't forget those.

Have you ever seen a Dodge Stratus that isn't green? C'mon–be honest! No, me neither. "You can have any colour you want, as long as...."

Sara is napping, I'm driving fast. I realize that I am glad to be in the gritty imperfect reality of the trip (qua the trip). An idea made into a thing is better for the transformation–even though it lose its lustre and blemishlessness along the way (as it always will). The mild monotony and slight discomfort of this long car drive mean that I have put myself into the picture, and I like it here–even when the brush strokes aren't as pretty this close up. Whatever its rough edges, this is "a thing made real."

We saw our first little twister (between the highway and the railroad tracks), and our first Border Patrol vehicle (Border Patrol SUV, actually).

We arrive Brownsville, the last U.S. stop–the big border crossing. We need cash, conversion of same to Mexican currency, and food (Sara suggests Taco Bell; I'm uncertain about this). None of the money changers–or "Casas de Cambios"–along the main drag (International Boulevard, which leads to the border crossing), will sell us pesos on a credit card, so the need for cash intensifies. On the direction of a doe-eyed, olive-skinned, and otherwise gorgeous young female money changer, I head for a nearby Texaco with an ATM. And, well, that's just about the most uncomfortable I've ever been at a cash machine in my entire life.

This hyperbole does, by the way, include ATM stops in Oakland, Manhattan, and southside Atlanta. As a half-dozen slightly desperate-looking (my imagination? could be) men loiter around, I slope my cash card out of my now-not-so-secret pouch, swipe it, enter my PIN (much as if I were printing it out to a Jumb-O-Tron), and watch in abject horror as the machine proceeds to spit out $200 in tens into a protruding, clear, plastic receptacle–one flicking bill at a time, just like a Vegas cash-counting machine.

Great.

Regaining the Casa de Cambio (the one with the dusky nymph), with my wad and throat intact, I note that the current exchange rate is 9.2 pesos por el dolare–my US$120 is magically transformed into just over 1,050 pesos. It occurs to me that this ratio is really indicative of the way the money is going to spend, and the way it feels. This wad almost certainly feels like about a grand to the average Mexican (if not more), and with the rates of the hotels we're looking at (80 pesos por noche, 110 pesos por noche), it is going to spend like a grand on vacation anywhere else (well, certain other places, at any rate).

There is a construction project right in front of the border crossing. As we sit at the intersection waiting to pull out, the lights change–but nothing changes for the scores of stationary cars and trucks. My every item of clothing is stuck to my skin, from the 120 frantic seconds where I sat in the E-Z-Bake oven that is the stopped Trooper, scribbling into the notebook the paragraph above. Now, we are running the AC again; without it, we should perish. As we finally get the opportunity to pull out, I seem to think that the clutch is slipping a bit. Come to think of it, when I first drove the car yesterday, I couldn't help but note that the clutch really needed to be way out before engaging. It's probably nothing.

"Oh, I'm sure they'll have a great time–but their car will definitely break down at some point."

- Jack Nelson (our cursedly prescient uncle)

Within twenty minutes the clutch was mostly a memory. I remember (fondly? okay) my buddy George ribbing me about whether the clutch on my old Datsun 200SX was down to 30% of its teeth yet. Man, I nursed that particular dying clutch for months. This one faded away in minutes. It quickly became apparent that we were taking a risk continuing on into Mexico; then, that it would be stupid to continue; then, that it was basically out of our hands. Sara called a AAA-recommended garage, and we endeavored to find them. Miserably, we weren't navigating well, and almost immediately got caught back up in the log jam heading for the border crossing points. I made a couple of bad lane change decisions–and our diminishing ability to move forward from a stop was starting to seriously impact our maneuverability in traffic. I made a dicey turn across traffic (willing the clutch out), and we turned tail. We still weren't particularly near the garage we had called, and I had to report to my companion that we might not actually be able to start again should we have to stop, and I steeled myself to start rolling the stop signs. At that moment, we rolled around a corner, and a huge structure with the lettering Neto's Shop & Transmission on its side came into view. It was clean, and well-ordered, and filled with cars being worked on.

Let me tell you, friends, when you come down with a shot clutch on the Mexican border, and roll by a transmission shop on your last gear teeth, you stop. (Commitments to the place you spoke with on the phone notwithstanding.)

I can also tell you that we've had the most amazing breakdown imaginable. As the car failed, there was (of course) a certain struggle to maintain our equanamity (in the face of this, uh, "shit"). But after a mere hour's reflection, the two of couldn't be happier: For starters, Neto (proprietor) is not an English speaker–and, suprisingly (particularly to me) I sprang to the breech with my recently hacked Spanish skills. The intercourse was somewhat fumbling–but when I did bust out with some well-placed pleasantries, you could see Neto warm to us in real time. At least we had made the damned effort (unlike most norteoamericanos).

Neto sprang to his cellular phone to dig up a clutch, and had an estimate in our hand in eight minutes. He promised to have the work done by 3pm tomorrow (Saturday), and dispatched his charming wife to drive us to the Comfort Inn up the highway. Of course, being stranded is not quite precisely what we had in mind (best quip from check-in: "Visa: It's everywhere you don't really particularly want to be, but there you are anyway"), but still the Comfort Inn, I must note, is pretty darned nice, with lots of space, un bano bonita (which gives me cause to remember reason #356 why laptops are cool), as well as a fridge and microwave. We're using the unexpected downtime to work on our much-neglected itinerary. Moreover, there is a nice El Globo Mercado across the highway, from which we have happily procured beer and food.

This isn't coming out like I wanted it. Good travel writing (yeah, even travel writing) should have a narrative arc, with real ups and downs. This requirement is, not least, because real travel has ups and downs. It's also a good idea, because I have no desire to come off like one of those guys for whom every aspect of everything that transpires is just grand–and intended. ("Oh, yeah, I meant for all that to happen. Much better this way.") And, moreover, today has certainly had its ups and downs. The bad news is that I haven't yet gotten good enough at conveying them (or, perhaps, at being able to embrace them enough to convey them well). But the good news is that we are doing a pretty darned good job of dealing with them.

Fuchs' (Sara & Michael): 1; Shit: 0

Even at the risk of seeming self-satisfaction, I'll take that.

Tonight: another beer, and enchiladas; tomorrow, the world (well, at any rate, the third world). Good night, folks.