Comida Y Bebidas, Tejas

Bridget and I decide to go in our own directions in Texas since I need to reconnect with my past and she is set to meet Matt’s friends, family and family of friends.

Donnie and I exchange gay stories over Belgian trippels and waffle fries at the Flying Saucer. Melinda and I reminisce over a margarita lunch about the rattling off ingredients of the Yvette Sauce to hungry patrons fifty times each night before racing out of work to get plastered and play pool. Later, Lauren and Erica add conversational flavor to our Tex-Mex dinner with gossip about fellow 2000 Madison graduates, Lauren’s preparation for motherhood and Erica’s responsibilities of sainthood.

BAM! Bella decides to bail on the world of newspapers for a long weekend to frolic with me and mutual friends in Tejas. Thank you, thank you, to my sister who drops everything to be where she is needed. We stay with our friends, Laura and Lori in San Antonio who lift us with laughter and fix scrumptious food.

Erin and Jennie drive from Wimberley to swoop us into a world of more margaritas, Mexican food and a trip to H-E-B before we return to Wimberley for a party in a cabin on Cypress Creek. Laura and Lori drive up and micro-manage the grilling of chicken while I chop mint and carve mangoes. Wine flows like the Cypress while Jennie and Bella catch up on life between chapters three and four of “How To Become A Lesbian,” coached by Erin and I…

N'awlins: Beyond Just Hurricanes

“It’s back. It’s totally back.” Like Katrina never happened, the French Quarter hops with hurricane hubs and Cajun cuisine while beads are tossed by women in lace from balconies. We meet Chad, the crawfish boiler at Yo’ Mama, who drives us to Cooter Brown’s, a local beer joint away from the debauchery of the French Quarter. He reveals his account of Katrina: the 14-hour evacuation to Mississippi, returning to rubble, gratitude for the kindness of compassionates and rebuilding in the aftermath.

We frolic amidst neon signs, eat our way across the Quarter, tap the ever-flowing booze and take full advantage of that legal-to-drink-on-the-street law. It’s time to check out after a night of piano renditions of Robert Earl’s “Gringo Honeymoon” and Sir Mix-A-Lot’s “Baby Got Back” at Pat O’Brien’s. On our way out, we bump into gregarious Karla, immediately suggesting we visit the Ninth Ward before heading out of town.
“We were going to head over there but have been repeatedly warned that it’s too dangerous,” Bridget informs.
Karla chuckles, “Just by folks that are afraid of black people.”

Past the Quarter, shabbiness creeps in on the faces of pink, blue, green houses; crossing over the bridge our trepidation is palpable. We drive a street where houses used to be crammed so close together you could’ve heard Chad making dinner next door. They’re now expanses of overgrown grass sprinkled with empty foundations. Intermittent structures resembling homes are missing roofs, walls of brick are caved in and trees protrude from bedrooms. The air is thick with shrieks of the past’s horror and a montage of Karla’s recollections flash through my mind. “No trash pick up for a year... A nightfall curfew enforced by soldiers brought back from Iraq still programmed to shoot at will... And imagine being escorted to your home, ordered not to touch anything and the next time you return it more closely resembles piles of wood on cement than a home.”

Even five years after the storm, the booms of devastation render us silent. A man rolls down the window next to us seeing my pensive look and gleams a smile, “Life ain’t that bad!”
I blink back tears I have been fighting all day so not to scare the poor man and embrace the gratitude that electrocutes me . Hopeful, I reply, “It sure ain’t.”