Goodbye Houston

8 July 2013

We serendipitously arrived at the Adickes sculpture just as a crane was preparing to deconstruct it. The men had already taken down the portion of the sculpture that reads “We love” and all that was left was “Houston.” The crane hovered menacingly over the “H.” Jason, Holley and I ran over to the crew with our cameras in hand.  Holley yelled, “This is her last day in Houston!  We need to take pictures!”

The men backed the crane away and patiently indulged us in our nostalgic photo session.  They even gave us a ladder so we could climb up into the sculpture and perch ourselves within the letters that made up the name of our beloved city.  Before we overstayed our welcome, we climbed down from the scaffolding and just as we made it across the street, the crane removed the “H” from sculpture.  “Goodbye, Houston,” I said and then it hit me; this was really happening.  Today I would drive away from Houston for good.  I had been so occupied with the business of packing, moving, graduating and celebrating that I had not fully realized the weight of the concept that an era of my life was coming to an end.  I started to cry and within a moment, found myself in the middle of a three-way embrace with Holley and Jason.  These were happy tears.

When I moved to Houston three years ago, I had no expecations.  I had made a tough decision to leave my residency program in Connecticut after what had been the most challenging year of my life on nearly every level.  Little did I know at that time that my move to Houston would mark such a pivotal moment in my life.  I was on the cusp of great change.  I was just emerging from the sadness of a painful break-up.  After four years in the kind of relationship that left me feeling raw and derailed, I was finally ready to rediscover myself.  Houston was the backdrop to that journey.  It wasn’t long before I was welcomed into the sweaty but loving arms of that city.

On the surface, Houston seemed like an overwhelming large concrete jungle, but I quickly learned that it is really the smallest big city I have ever known.  It wasn’t long before I discovered the personality of its many diverse, quirky neighborhoods and varied subcultures.  Soon I found myself recognizing the same friendly faces around town.  By the time I left Houston, it was rare for me to go on an errand or outing and not run into someone I knew, even in the fourth largest city in America.

Houston is not the kind of city that puts all of its rewards right in your face like New York or San Francisco.  It isn’t until you start to scratch through the outer layer, strike up a conversation with a stranger, read the free weekly press, that you really discover the gems that this city has to offer.  There are a plethora of non-pretentious incredible spots to eat and drink, free outdoor concerts and performances, hipster cafes, farmers markets, eclectic art displays and instillations, parks, breweries, and the representation of nearly every foreign culture one could imagine.  While in Houston, I tried so many new things that enriched my life; each novel experience leading me to the next.  From impromptu two-step dance lessons from middle-aged men at Blancos, to crystal bowl meditation sessions at yoga studios to delving into the athletic communities of cycling, crossfit and even hash-running.  I began to see that Houston had so much to offer if you just looked for it.

Even greater than what I learned about Houston, I learned about Texas as a whole.   After a few years, I finally understood why the inhabitants of this state are so fiercely loyal to their “heritage.”  Northeasterners can be cold, gruff, and blunt upon first meeting, but over time will let down their walls, treat you like family, and tell it like it is.  Southerners act with the utmost of politeness and hospitality to all, but you never quite know where you stand.  Do they really like you? Or were they just exercising good manners?  Westerners are friendly in a relaxed fashion; they will chit-chat with a stranger, but keep their distance, taking time to let a new person in. 

Texans seem to have the best of all of these qualities.  They are a genuinely friendly group of people, to the point where you feel welcomed and at ease without feeling patronized.  Texans are straight shooters, but they typically manage to be blunt and honest in a pleasant manner.  If you give a little, you get a lot from a Texan.  Once you start to open up, they let you right in.  You can go from stranger to part of the family over the course of a few hours.  And then you are family just like everyone else, no special privileges.  “Get down and dirty now because you are one of us.”  No strangers have ever welcomed and embraced me more than Texans have.  With a family from College Station, all it took was sharing beers while we waited in line for BBQ together that made us family.  With a grandfather I met two-stepping in Austin, a few dances and some deep conversations about our lives was all it took one night to make a life-long friend. 

On my last night in Houston, I looked around at the people who had gathered at the icehouse to say goodbye and realized that I have never had a better conglomeration of friends in my life than I had in Texas.  Friends from the hospital showed up in scrubs, cycling friends rolled in on bikes from their evening ride, Crossfit friends came sweaty from the WOD, and close friends baked cakes, made posters, and wrote heart-felt cards.  I took a brief moment between the laughs, beers, and hugs, to take it all in, and I felt my heart swell with happiness.  I realized that the last three years in Houston had truly been the best of my life: full of personal growth and self discovery, fierce friendships, positive energy, amazing meals, quirky characters, sweaty bike rides, humbling 5am work-outs, long days at the hospital, and endless laughter.  When I moved to Houston, I think I was fortunate enough to be in a phase where the canvas of my life was freshly cleaned and ready for new paint.  Today I feel as though I leave Texas with a quirky but beautiful work of art that I am proud to display to the world outside.  Somewhere in the midst of the streaks of paint on that canvas you will find the outline of the state of Texas with a heart over Houston.  This is my ode to that town. 

A couple days in Denver

25-27 August 2012

I immediately missed the convenience of the little Albuquerque airport when I landed in busy Denver, Colorado.  Getting to the rental car proved to be a much lengthier process requiring me to take a shuttle bus blaring Christian rock to which the other bus riders sang along.  I felt a little out of place. I was also surprised at the landscape as I looked around.  I had pictured Denver to be a city surrounded by green hills and snow-capped mountains.  The area around the airport is flat, brown and arid.  I almost wondered if I had gotten on the wrong plane.

After waiting at least thirty minutes in line at the rental car office, I was getting antsy to start exploring Denver.  When I got to the front desk, the woman told me that I could either wait awhile for my compact car or take the Ford Explorer she had ready right now.  Although the green conservationist within me cringed at the idea of driving a massive, gas-guzzling SUV, I had had enough of Fox Rental car for one day so I sold out and caved in.

I had procrastinated on reserving a hotel room that night in Denver until the morning of my departure. I had hoped to get a room in the same hotel where the University of Colorado was putting me up the following night, but thanks to my slacking, the hotel was fully booked.  While driving from Sante Fe to Albuquerque airport that morning, I had done a quick google search to find a hotel.  Yes, I realize Googling while driving is not the safest maneuver, but its what I did.  I even managed to find a hostel in downtown Denver for just $39 per night for a room with a shared bathroom.  The man on the phone didn't even make my leave a credit card, he just promised he would hold me a spot.

My Google maps lead me a bit astray on the way to the hostel, taking me to the south part of Broadway, just about 3 miles away from downtown.  It turned out to be a cool neighborhood with lots of bars, eateries, hippie cafes and even medical marijuana shops.  I had skipped lunch and was starving at this point so I pulled off to grab a slice of pizza at a place I had passed.  Being a New Jersey pizza snob, I wasn't too impressed with the pizza slice.  I was, however, quite impressed with the man who I saw walk out of one of the bars wearing an outlandish costume of very short 1980s gym shorts, a T-shirt with Bill Murray’s face on it, and a matching sweat band.  It looked like these Denver folks knew how to have a good time.

Eleventh Ave Hostel was right in the heart of downtown Denver, as it had been described.  When I walked into the lobby, I began having serious reservations about my decision to stay here though.  Maybe I should have paid more attention to the reviews I’d read online that spoke of one traveler’s experience acquiring bed bugs there….

The under-construction lobby of the hostel reminded me of a run down post-office with drab colors, yellow fluorescent lighting, gray furniture, and sketchy patrons.  In one of the couches, there was a very thin and anemic looking older black man, sullenly sitting there staring into space.  A short and stout mentally retarded man with coke-bottle glasses paced around the lobby holding a glazed donut with sprinkles while talking to himself.

I was greeted by a man wearing a nametag that read “Mark H” when I walked up to the front desk.  I recognized him as the same man I spoke to over the phone with his unmistakable raspy smokers voice. He was a middle-aged man who had clearly lived a rough life.  His thinning hair was slicked back into a greasy little ponytail, his skin dyed a nice yellow hue either from the years of tobacco exposure or perhaps the a bit of jaundice from the drinking. His right arm had a large scar on the forepart, an injury that rendered the limb barely useable.  I wondered what kind of accident had caused the wound; perhaps a late-night bar fight, an aggressive attack dog, or maybe a former job on a factor line.

Mark H was friendly enough and remembered me from the phone.  He was one of those people who likes to use your first name a lot in conversation.  I told him that I’d like to see the room before I committed to staying in it.  I was really just buying myself a little more time to decide if I wanted to cut and run to the closest Best Western I could find.  He walked me upstairs through long corridors with red wooden doors, slightly reminiscent of the hotel in “The Shining.”  I spotted a few European tourists in the hallways and felt a bit more at ease to know that the hostel wasn’t really a half-way house for recovering addicts and semi-homeless folks.  The room was clean enough and for $39, I figured why not.  I handed over my credit card, $5 deposit for a key, and another $3 to rent a towel.  Mark H promised it would be the fluffiest one he had.

I was ready for some exercise after sitting in airplanes and cars for the last few hours and I was anxious to be out in the late afternoon Denver sun.  As I was changing into my running gear, my phone rang.  It was my cousin, Drew.  Drew lives in the Boulder area and we had been talking about the possibility of meeting up while I was in town.  Drew told me, “I am parking right now.”  When he said this, I assumed he meant he had just pulled into his own driveway when in actuality, he was parking down the street.  When he heard from his dad (my uncle), that I was in town Saturday night, he figured he’d better head down since I wouldn't be here long and just drove to downtown Denver.  Fortunately, he just so happened to have parked his car a few blocks from my hostel, even though he hadn’t a clue as to what part of town I'd be staying in.

We took a walk through downtown Denver which was light up with afternoon sun.  There were some architecturally interesting art museums and a beautiful capital building.  Outside of the capital, there were bleachers and other festivities being set up.  Tomorrow, this spot would be the finish line for the ProAM cycling race, a professional ride that summits many mountains in Colorado over a 10 day period.  I was happy to see that Denver had a downtown that appeared thriving even on the weekends, unlike many cities.  This place was really growing on me.

For dinner that night, I met up with an old college friend, Erin.  Erin had been one of my closest friends during the 6 month period I spent studying abroad in England.  We hadn’t seen each other since around 2003 and certainly a lot had happened since then, namely her getting married and having a new baby.  She picked a trendy and delicious restaurant called Colt & Gray where hipster-type servers brought us hand-made cocktails and lots of delicious things to eat like foie gras terrine, beet burgers, house made charcuterie, and cheesecake in a mason jar.  Erin and I still had lots in common after all these years, including a love of food.

In my gigantic SUV, I followed her to her house after dinner.  The city was busy with nightlife that Saturday.  I spotted quite a few brewpubs I’d love to come back to on the way and was happy to see many people using bicycles for transportation too.  I got to meet Erin’s husband, his sister, and the cute baby.  Erin was excited that I could possibly be moving to Denver in the near future.  She told me she had a friend who ran a CrossFit gym and that I could go hiking with her other friends.  Matt’s sister was talking about her recent “fourteen-er.”  It appears that in Colorado, there are lots of people who keep track of the number of mountain peaks over 14-feet that they summit.  There are about 53 of them in the state.  She had most recently done 2 peaks in one day.  I was ready call home and tell them I wouldn't be returning to Texas any time soon.

Before I left for the evening, Erin asked if I was sure I didn't want to stay at her house on the air mattress that night.  She thought my hostel experience sounded a bit sketchy, and although she was right, I was excited for my possible adventure that night.  Back at the hostel, I found a parking spot in the dark, graffiti covered back alley.  A few smokers sat on the patio and I could hear the loud music from the bars nearby.  I was thankful for earplugs.

I am happy to report that I made it through the night unscathed and without bedbugs or scabies (as far as I can tell).  I woke up to a beautiful, cloudless morning.  I got into my running clothes and found the closest café that Yelp reviews promised would have a great espresso bar.  I washed down by raspberry scone with a latte while I planned out a running course. 

Sufficiently caffeinated, I set off towards Cheesman Park.  I realized my pace was fast and my legs felt strong, but I was struggling to breath and violently thirsty thanks to the altitude in the Mile High City.  There was a rose garden with on a hill with views of mountains beyond so I took advantage of if to catch my breath.  From Cheesman Park, I ran down to City Park which was quite a bit larger and also apparently preparing for the ProAM ride to pass through it that morning.  I got in a good seven mile run, and although my lungs were burning, it felt good to run in the cooler and dryer weather while I toured more of Denver.

I said goodbye to Mark H, the man with the donut, and the 11^th Ave Hostel.  Before leaving town, I picked up a fruit and yogurt smoothie from a health food shop called, Parsley.  A sign on the wall implored you to cut up your American Express card as an act of defiance against corporate greed.  They even provided the scissors.  Juice in hand, I started my drive up to a town called Longmont, not far from Boulder.  I was heeding the suggestion of my friend, Luke, who told me I should check out the Oskar Blues taproom there.  It promised dozens of locally brewed craft beers and live bluegrass so he knew I’d like it.  I also figured I could visit with my cousins a bit more as I’d learned last night they would be right down the street.  My friend Shan Shan met me there and we shared a huge plate of barbequed ribs and pulled pork, drank good beer, and caught up while listening to an impromptu bluegrass session complete with fiddle, mandolin, bangos, and even an Irish stepper.

After lunch, I visited my cousins Drew and Seth at a test kitchen down the road.  They are trying to start a business making “mochi.”  I always thought mochi was just the fluffy white sweet rice candy that one can find in frozen yogurt shops as a topping, but it turns out there is more to it than that.  They showed me around the industrial test kitchen while they waited for their brown ride to boil.  Later they would make it into a sort-of paste and eventually it would look like a flat thin square that one could use like toast.  In the storeroom of the test kitchen I also saw a lot of other health food items, like granola, gluten-free cakes and chai tea, in various stages of production.  The whole place smelled wonderfully of cinnamon granola.  I hadn’t seen my cousins since our grandmother died in 2010, so it was good to catch up.

As I drove back to Denver that afternoon, I enjoyed the rural beauty of Colorado.  Expansive farmland and horse corrals led up to massive mountain ranges.  This was the Colorado I had envisioned.  I wished I had more time, but I had to get back to Denver for a work function that evening.

The University of Colorado put all of the interviewees up in a cute little boutique hotel in the affluent Denver neighborhood called Cherry Creek.  There were tons of shops within walking distance, including a very bustling Whole foods. I picked up an excellent cortado at a very hipster café which used Intelligentsia coffee beans.  I got back to the hotel just in time to meet the rest of the group for an awesome dinner at a nearby Italian restaurant using mostly local ingredients on their menu.  I saved room for dessert and met up with my friend, Casey, at a very popular ice cream spot.  The place is an open-air creamery that serves its ice cream out of a circular building that looks like a giant, old fashioned milk jug.  After waiting in a very long but quickly moving line, I ordered a mix of peanut butter pretzel and banana chocolate chip ice flavors.  Somehow in 24 hours, I had managed to visit with 3 friends, and 2 family members, run 7 miles, take a drive through the country, listen to bluegrass, and eat and drink lots of wonderful new things.  I was satisfied.  It was now time for the work portion of my trip to begin!