Stranded in Texas Part 1: Drinking at the airport and introductions at a coffee house

This past weekend I took some much needed time off of work and put together enough money so I could go visit my oldest friend Fernando in San Marcos, Texas.

I was looking for a good excuse to have a few drinks at the airport and get away from home and this was a perfect opportunity. I love drinking at the airport because I can get as drowsy as possible after a couple of cocktails and then, just pass out in my chair until I get where I need to go. It also helps the fear of impending doom that I get every time I set foot in an airport. Plus, I don’t have to acknowledge guilt or shame even though I got drunk and took a nap early on a Sunday afternoon. I managed to waste the day while not really wasting it at all.

There’s something unique about the process of catching a buzz on a plane. If you measure correctly you can have just enough to drink so you pass out for the duration of the flight and by the time you wake up your vision might be a little cloudy, but for the most part you are back to a sober equilibrium and you didn’t have to sit through that whole flight stuck with something disgusting, like your own thoughts.

I had to fly from MacArthur airport in Islip New York around 11 in the morning then, over to Baltimore for an hour and finally to San Antonio around 5 p.m. — in other words — too much time to be alone with my thoughts.

That morning I was wearing thigh high shorts, my backpack, a pair of over-the-ear headphones and a camera around my neck. Before I left the house my mother said, “You look like a typical tourist.”

“I’m a journalist damnit! I look like a journalist.” I barked back.

After all, this trip wasn’t just some random excuse to drink in the sun or catch up with an old friend. I’m an adult and I have a job to do. I was heading there to find a story even if there wasn’t one. If a clear narrative didn’t present itself I’d have to strangle it out of the situation — just like a real journalist would.

When I landed in San Antonio, the first thing I noticed was that it was 100 degrees outside. The sun bakes everything out here for better or worse. It was getting dark by the time I was on the ground and that kept the heat from beating me into submission right away.The oppressive heat outside means you need to be constantly hydrating and hanging out by the pool or floating on the river to avoid melting onto the pavement.

My phone refused to adjust to the time shift no matter how many times I shut it off and turned it back on so the entire time I’ve been here it has seemed later than it actually is. After Fernando picked me up we rode along the winding sandy highways peppered with palm trees, Walmart warehouses and massive gas stations. We stopped at a coffee house near Fernando’s apartment for a post-airport drink and I got to meet some friends of my good friend, which is always interesting if not occasionally painful.

Thankfully, it wasn’t too bad and I managed to have some stuff in common with the people I met. They made me feel welcome when they didn’t have to and I really appreciated that.

The first night was mostly for introductions and mini-pitchers of lone star beer at the coffee house. It was a rustic wooden shack painted a warm red with six or seven picnic tables outside and a stage for bands and poets to play for the small crowd of art freaks and eccentrics.

The college-town atmosphere is permeated by a particular attitude — make due with what you have right now. Pooling together money you don’t have on food and booze that is a little too far out of your estimated budget. Everyone praying that the math will workout and somehow someone will make it happen. The essence of being too afraid to check your bank account and being ok with that.

This was technically my second time in Texas. My friends and I had gone once several years prior to visit Fernando, but it rained the entire time and we had to get drunk inside and play video games for a week. It was fun in its own right but we didn’t necessarily get the pure San Marcos experience. This time, I was really looking forward to baking in the sun and meeting some weird people like they have back in Atlanta, or any other artist/college-town community.