Austin

Four women, four overly stuffed backpacks, a lightrail, some cocktails & a four and a half hour flight deposited us upon a warm pre-dusk, more green lush than was to be expected Texas. A taxi to the Crowne Plaza, a change of clothing, shots of Hornitos muddled, a shuttle to 6^th & we were on the inviting strip of dancing lights, horse & carriages & music of all sorts blurring between each open bar front, the muscles of a drummer’s back - small mountains against the wet of sweat. We followed the freebies, ate our first round of tex mex, asked for the most likely place to find a mustache – which would be Handlebar, where if you don’t have one you can’t work there: a see-saw on the rooftop, and old westerns and football games from projectors onto brick. At this point we were done with kitsch, and looked to find the seedy, which would be my favorite bar in Austin - Holy Mountain. There were a lot of pre-ACL concerts with hefty entry fees about town, so we put on a confused face, chased a beetle and smiled sweetly at the doorman, instilling in him a need to help us lost souls out – and that he did. Something between seeing the best beard ever & feeling at home within a few hours of Austin made me weep. This or the thought of what you’re missing.

We had been up for close to 24 hours, and with our complete dive into Austin nightlife we slept in piles of each other till the next afternoon. The sun baked the glass, the air conditioner hummed. We made each other coffee, laid by the pool. We had already made best friends with Walter, a retired-returned-to-work-ex-bartender-and-security-head-at-the-airport-turned-to-bellhop-perv. Walter would do anything for us. On this day he took us to South Congress, where we had our iced coffees, stopped at little outdoor markets, pet and played with adoptable pups, where krackals cackled and jumped into their cages to steal the puppy pebbles. We went into costume shops, thrift shops, cowboy boot stores, ice cream parlors; admired the graffiti. Our guide, the voluptuous Masa and daughter in tote took us out to an early dinner, where we had glasses of wine, and myself, the pate with bread and seedy mustard.

After dinner we purchased groceries & booze to munch & sip as we dolled up in the hotel room. The curling iron hot, carrots & hummus, vodka orange juices & eyeshadow palettes. The theme of the night must have been: sassy with a hit of one-stop-wonder; a little black dress & we headed to Bangers. Delicious beer, picnic table conversations & I’m not sure where the night went. There was a king’s chair & street dancing is y’all I know.

Friday morning was the start of ACL. All taxis were reserved, the streets full of bicycle carriages, riders in costumes, sweating from the weight of couples eager to skip the walk. Our sacred taxi with the husky laugh got us as close to Zilker Park as he could; we walked the uneven dust along gorgeous greenblue algae and large lumps of turtle backs floating. Walking further we found Barton Springs. The water there held a blanket of sea snakes, green moss, water flowers, large fish, a diving board to delve into the slime of it all. Some androgynous lifeguard yelled at me, “Swim between the ducks!” Like I would understand what the hell that meant. After about 20 minutes of trying to figure out what this meant, I dove in between the sea snakes & we walked around Zilker, watching the thousands head to the music. Sounds from FUN emanated between the trees. We stopped into a dude ranch for more tex mex & margaritas. I noticed we were sitting beside Erin Wasson, a model I’ve been eyeing the last long while.  The luster of Famous seems less fantastic in person, but I still enjoyed those chicken legs.  We continued our long walk, to Hooters, which was a yawn, to the park below S. Congress bridge to watch the thousands of bats burst at sunset. Cousin & I walked around 6^th, ending at a hotel with magic appeal, changing in the bathroom. We took at seat at the Piano Bar, where some lively pianist was renditioning the hell out of some good music, all of us sharing a fishbowl margarita & jello shots. We sang loud, cheered the bachelor party to a shirtless surrender, danced our way to Coyote Ugly where women were taking shots off women & some of us were pulled to the bar for the requisite bar dance.  Spirits on fire & the streets closed to cars, hundreds of people filled the roads, women in 7in heels, professional dance routines, houseparty catcalls, every man had style, every woman seemed almost invisible – not quite sure how still.  Food truck meat products & an awkward taxicab situation were the apertif to the night.

Somewhere along the way we found our part of Austin – East 6^th, where the locals seem more local, the beer is cheap, food trucks are tucked behind the bar & square dancing can ensue. This is where we had our fancy dinner – seafood & dark&stormy’s. The setting was night, the décor French, with little lights lit about the fence, greenery tickling over our shoulders. Later it was cheap tacos, deep-fried beets, hot queso & chips, chorizo, fried avocado. It was our goal to plump our middles, a cheap price to pay for the mouthwater of a new city full in new flavors.

Most nights we’d run from the cab, ecstatically, hop the locked fence at the Plaza & leap into the pool. We’d giggle, loudly shhhhing, cartwheeling down the hotel hall at 3 am, falling to the door waiting for one or the other of us to get the key in.

One night at Holy Mountain we took part in a punk show, moshing reminiscent of my 16-yr-old self. I was shoved to the ground, lying sprawled on a slick of beer as some girl pulled me up. We let out some pent up aggression here, some of that loneliness that aches. Another night, at the White Horse, ordering the bartender’s specials, we watched a vaudeville sass of a band with a 7-foot tall banjoist with a fake mustache & white short shorts. This would become Cousin’s future husband, the two tallest people in tejas (sidenote: everyone is taller in tejas).

Took a tour of the Capitol, a beautiful building surrounded in cannons & statues, larger than the white house, almost in essence of charlie & the chocolate factory with it’s sugary lighting, magical stairwells in the ceiling & locked doors.

Our last night, Sunday, we were invited to someone’s boyfriends factory. The best way I can describe the experience is that we were in the western version of the Warhol factory. I believe the entire fortress was called the “Tiger’s Den,” named after one room in particular painted fluorescent orange with black slashes, famous glitterart hung on display of pee wee herman & barbarella. A bar, a projector playing football, two radio commentators satiring radio commentators were live on their radio show as people took shots, drank branded texas beer & PBR, while eating only yellow starbursts. This was just one room. Another was like a concrete jungle, full of tools, projects, broken pianos, couches, a couple cats, a cage on wheels for dancers, a ping pong table & candles. We played ping pong for hours. Many hours of ping pong. The 7-footer came by for Cousin, we sat in beanbags & I filmed for a movie I’m putting together. 

Our last day was spent at some eateries near our hotel, where the bartender bought all our oyster shots & slushies, where I ate cheesy grits with andouille. We laid by the pool, relaxed, all of us thinking: we’ve got to move here. Everyone in Austin is more friendly, more appreciative, taller, and more willing to smile on any given day – they’re not the weekenders of other cities – they are everyday happy. That, and when we were at the Austin hotel standing beside us in line were some funny looking Englanders, whom I said, "They look like they're in a band." Then someone else said, "I think that's The Cure." And it was, and we took photos with them, all of them smirking on repeat, "Do you even know who we are?" What magic.