Lone Star

I was ready for the worst. I’d heard the horror stories of the vicious rednecks of Texas. You too might have heard the rumors and innuendo. It’s enough to make you think twice before venturing anywhere near the Great State of Texas. Self-preservation is a natural instinct. Why risk your neck just to push the envelope?

That’s why I’m here. That’s why you’re reading Don’t Even Go There.

I can tell you that while the rumors about Texas yokels are pervasive, they’re largely false. Most Texans, as it turns out, are as friendly and curious as a Quaker who’s accidentally swallowed an overdose of Viagra. While there may be bigots everywhere, I like to think they exist at the fringe of society. I see them as a tiny minority living in tents and eating a diet mostly of canned beans, so you can hear and smell them coming.

In an unscientific poll conducted during several of my trips through the state—which I undertook in a cruise-controlled marathon of coffee breaks and piss stops while trying to get to the next state as fast as possible—I found Texans to be among the friendliest people I’ve met. Much friendlier, as it turns out, than the drivers I encountered in Boston or Pennsylvania, for example.

While traveling west some years ago, I stopped in Amarillo for lunch. I found a small diner that exuded charm and the down-home smell of BBQ. The service was impeccable for such an inexpensive place, and afterward, I needed to walk off the meal. Along the way, I ducked into a local watering hole.

The woman in charge was just cleaning up the debris from the night before. The place was open, though, and she invited me in. The pool tables and neon beer signs looked commonplace, but the sawdust on the floor and the overturned chairs spoke volumes about the bar’s normal clientele.

As I sauntered up to the bar, I figured, Well, I’m in Texas; I should try the state beer. So I ordered a Lone Star. That was a mistake.

After the proprietor stopped laughing, she said, in her drawl, “Yer not from around here, are ya? What you want is a Kers Laht. That there’s a good beer.” It took me a moment to figure out she meant Coors Light, not a brand I’d have ordered even if I’d just survived a week in the desert. Given the circumstances, though, how could I refuse?

She served me an ice-cold bottle, and while I drank, she described the night before in colorful detail, mentioning regulars by their first names: Bubba, Hank, and “Bobby Joe, who puked in the alley.” She offered to show me the stain, but I demurred. Texan generosity may know no limits, but I had mine.

All too soon, I was on my way again, with a broad smile and a lasting memory. I’ve never yet had a bad experience in Texas, and I’ve been back, oh, several times. If not for its arid climate—the kind that makes your eyes permanently squint like Clint Eastwood’s—I might like it more. Luckily, most of the state’s highways are straight, and they lead to other, more scenic places. Like Oklahoma. Lucky me.

Lessons Learned: If you ever get the chance, take a trip to Texas and find out for yourself. Visit the Alamo in San Antonio. Pay tribute to the Stevie Ray Vaughn memorial in Austin. Stop in for the Dallas nightlife. Spend a winter holiday in Houston. It’s a big state with lots to offer. They know how to make you feel at home, and they won’t stop until you burp.