I remember reading a quote that said something like “the best vacation is one you plan to the finest detail, then never take.” My experience going to Texas this past March turned out quite the opposite: almost none of my plans worked out. Instead, I got to rely on spontaneous surprise.
Original itinerary in brief: ride the train from Lordsburg to San Antonio, rent a car, drive to Corpus Christi (CC) for my 55th high school reunion, lodge with cousins, cruise to scenic Rancho Richey Refuge for one night, return the vehicle in San Antonio, train back to Lordsburg. Simple!
Almost nothing like that happened.
Schedule called me to leave the morning of the 19th, but Amtrak notified me the day before that the eastbound route canceled due to a derailment. Flying proved nearly impossible to book and too pricey to afford on such short notice. What about other ground transport?
Greyhound threw a rescue rope: An online service called FLIX reserved me a seat from Deming at 9:40 a.m. and another from El Paso at 12:45 p.m. to San Antonio, arriving there half an hour past midnight the next morning. You could call this the down-to-earth equivalent of a red-eye.
My dear sweet Lebanese cousins, the Habeebs, in Corpus at first said come ahead. Between the three of them, someone could likely accommodate me. But no—turned out that Vicki and Linda had their hands full of infirmity and illness; Camille was leaving town that weekend. So online I reserved a one-star Catalina Motel room on Ocean Drive, just a stone’s throw from my parents’ graves in Seaside Memorial Park. That tiny plot of dirt seemed the only home I had left in the Sparking City by the Sea. Alas, though, Catalina never sent a confirmation; phone calls went unanswered; uncertainty reigned.
I arranged to rent a vehicle in the Alamo City from SIXT, but with the odd arrival time in my new schedule not meshing with their open hours, I canceled. The fine print in their contract let them keep a hundred of my dollars for their trouble. OK, not-OK, whatever. Instead of steering myself south, I engaged another Greyhound to Corpus and set up a rental there with good ol’ reliable Enterprise.
Thor’sDay, 03-19 Lina delivered me to Deming’s McDonald’s parking lot, where I boarded a fancy Prevost-brand bus at the appointed time. Seat 3C put me next to a pleasant young brunette. Eastward-ho we rolled along familiar Interstate 10 to a brief stop in Las Cruces. Waited about an hour in El Paso before claiming a near-front position on a second coach. Thus began my long day’s journey into night, still on the same controlled access highway but with destinations where a car traveler wouldn’t normally stop.
I brought my trusty travel log along for the trip. Handy while driving, it usually provides columns to record date, mileage, place, route, and time plus notes about halts or en-route curiosities. While on bus or train, all I could cite were times, places, and quick comments. During any journey, I always savor how the landscape changes.
Spent nearly an hour in Fort Stockton at a Sonoco Stripes travel center, which afforded no hot meals. Dined on a cold sandwich, baked Lays, Mountain Dew with a swarthy man whose name I didn’t catch.
Night enveloped us by 10:00 in Junction’s Shamrock convenience store. In Kerrville at 11:20, we gleaned a couple more passengers. Early-early in the morning, I staggered off at the Alamo City bus station not far from Travis Park, where our beloved Uncle Elmore used to hang out when he was homeless.
Frigga’sDay, 03-20 Bag on shoulder and suitcase wheels clacking on smooth, rough, and patterned pavements, I ventured forth into the popping nightlife. Went past the Navarro Street parking lot where I formerly brought many tourists from Austin to this iconic Texas city. Found delish street tacos adjacent to Coyote Ugly Saloon off Commerce. “Music” there blared so loud, the speakers ripped asunder. I hunkered at a narrow table overlooking the River Walk. Returned to the bus station to lie on a bench long enough to close my eyes and soothe my sore sacroiliac.
Long about 5:00 a.m., I felt the need for coffee. A Starbucks waited a short walk up St. Mary’s at Houston Street. With no place to sit because of vagrancy problems, I perched atop my suitcase to sip the enlivening hot liquid, jot in my journal, and attempt to account for all that happened since leaving New Mex.
By the time I returned to the bus station, the atmosphere there had completely changed. Lots of folks awaited departure on three daybreak busses. One obnoxious drunk at turns entertained and embarrassed the clientele. A wee woman put riders into separate lines and opened the door to the boarding area. I stashed my luggage in the bus well and claimed Seat 1 of the first row. At first a cute Chicana occupied the window position until, without explanation, a hulking black-clad inarticulate young feller replaced her. The efficient bilingual driver Mr. Cisneros laid out riding rules, and at 6:30 floored the vehicle onto Interstate 37 south. In that early light, I marveled at the flood of headlamps streaming into the city.
Only rest stop came at the Jorge Oeste (George West) exit, where we visited two Stripes stores, the second of which offered a steaming, bounteous breakfast buffet. Alas, no time. A granola bar would have to suffice.
Seeing the CC skyline as we approached, I noticed something missing: the old Harbor Bridge got razed (lowered, in truth) some months earlier, leaving a hole in my memory. Off the bus at 9:00 a.m., I stood in the uptown Regional Transport Authority plaza between the city hall and county courthouse. One of the venerable structures on adjacent Leopard Street once housed my mom’s dad’s grocery store, where she cashiered as a mere child.
Facing the bay, I strode off the bluff to downtown and found the Enterprise office next to the Omni. Another astonishment knocked me off balance: the rental agency would not accept debit for the transaction, only a credit card. News to me, not good. I hadn’t thought to bring Elan Visa. Dear cousin Camille offered to let me use hers as she headed to Houston, but without satisfactory credentials, I still didn’t qualify as a proper additional driver. No cash accepted, either. What if lovable Lina overnighted my forsaken card to me? Alas, with Silver City’s remote location, no company could assure prompt delivery.
Could Frost Bank, where my family did business for a century, help? I trudged eight-tenths of a mile to the nearest branch off Shoreline Drive. Staff were friendly and offered me water and a place to rest, but they don’t extend any credit to anyone whatsoever. Verdict: No vehicle for me, nowhere nohow. That, and Catalina Motel steadfastly refused phone calls. What now?
Deemed to cast my search net farther out. Sister Carol reminded me that Esther Van Hout, a former fellow tour guide in Austin who had also taken care of our aging mother, lives in our childhood neighborhood. I called Esther and, to my utter delight, she extended shelter to me on a spare bed. I reactivated my Lyft membership and, thanks to driver Angela, soon found myself on the Van Hout doorstep on Miramar Place.
Esther and husband Marinus were also out of town. Their daughter Melanie allowed me access. Together we set up the living room futon for sleeping. I laid out my teeny laptop on a narrow table close to their dining room and opened my case on a chair next to the picture window leading to a covered patio in the back yard. In this homey setting, most burdens slid off my bearing. Got some much-needed quietude.
That evening, Lyft Eric collected me from the ‘hood for a return to downtown. We Ray Texans Class of 1971 gathered for a happy hour at a central-city nightclub called BUS (Bar Under the Sun), site of the former Continental Trailways station. At this pre-party for the reunion, I laid eyes on classmates I hadn’t seen since the 40th, many of whom known from elementary school. I enjoyed fish and chips and hefeweizen and thrilled at resuming connections. We mingled on the covered outside patio. Oh, the stories; ah, the affection. What’s happened in the last 15 years? Where is Silver City? Glad for name tags!
Across Chaparral Street loomed the Ritz Theatre’s derelict facade with its unmistakable mission style. I remember seeing films and attending concerts there long ago. Established in 1929, it was still brand new when my mom moved to CC in the early 1930s. Good news: the proud old movie palace gets rehabilitated and restored this year.
Instead of Lyfting back to my lodging, buddy Anthony B. Shamoon, also of Lebanese lineage, let me ride in his pickup to H-E-B grocery on Alameda, where I picked up a few breakfast, snack, and beverage items.
SaturnDay, 03-21 My morning hired driver, Yunus, hailed from Turkey. Although I could barely understand him, he claimed to teach Turkish at Carroll High School. Who knew of such demand? Just after 9a, he let me off at the brand-new Harbor Bridge trailhead. About a dozen Ray Texans met there and began the 2.4-mile round trip trek to the belvedere observation area along the shared-use path (SUP).
Built to ADA specifications, the ramp and walkway sloped gently upward, making an easy hike. Motorized wheelchairs and bicycles also made their way towards the summit and beyond. Adequate guardrails separated us from the zooming east-bound traffic. Engineers note the span as the longest concrete segmental cable-stayed bridge in North America—which differs from the more familiar suspension bridges such as the Golden Gate. Here, covered cables fan out from two 538-foot towers.
We beheld remnants of the previous bridge, which connected the old city to North Beach between 1959 and 2025. Gray-heads remember attending first grade when the through-arch structure opened to great fanfare, and even further back in time recalled the bascule bridge that lifted and lowered to accommodate passing boats. This new overpass soars 205 feet above the water and allows much larger ships access to docks, piers, and wharves. Galveston is no longer the only place in Texas to board big cruise ships. Below us spread Whataburger Field’s baseball diamond. Some sort of job fair or industrial equipment exhibition went on in the facility’s parking lot. We shot many photos and videos of each other and the whole panorama. It’s always windy in CC, and even more so up top.
I rode with Barbara Ware and her dog, Ranger, to the HEB mansion on Ocean Drive, site of the main gathering that evening. Sid Blalack, Bunny Allison, and JP Jordan arrayed eleven tables and many chairs beneath a pavilion and designated areas for the buffet and my sound system. A six-foot wide blown-up image of our entire 1971 class hung on a wall. I almost didn’t recognize myself in it, but there I stood in my horn-rim spectacles near Brantley Bright, Janis Shields, Rita Ryan, Tom McMurry, and Tommy Whiteside, all of whom attended the reunion.
Sid and I made a quick trip to Sound Exchange (formerly the Horn Shop) in Six Points to grab an adapter to connect the laptop with two audio speakers. With all components hooked up, test tones and period music blared into the outdoor space with pleasing fidelity.
For his kindness of hauling me around, I treated Sid to lunch at Whataburger. Reclined at Esther’s.
Sid collected me again just after 5:00 and indulged me with a drive by the old homestead at 925 Dolphin. Gone from the family for nearly three years, it looked mostly the same and deserves a separate write-up of all that occurred within those walls since 1957. After a quick stop at Liquid Town for beer and vodka, we returned to the burgeoning event.
I started the music with Sugarloaf’s “Green Eyed Lady” from August of 1970, which came out just as our class began its senior year. Hits played the entire time in chronological order, to grand acclaim from the participants. Around 130 peeps showed up. We engorged, guzzled, and gyrated, but mostly talked and hugged. Every class likes to think of itself as the last cool one, but in our case, I believe we can make that claim stick. A professional photographer grouped us in elementary, junior high, and whole high school bunches. I cherished standing with all the girls I wished I’d dated.
I don’t remember being all that popular in high school, but these chums treated me with abundant approbation. Becky Braswell went on about my vital contributions to our Ray days. Tyler Barrett reminisced on a specific kindness I’d extended to him ages ago that he never forgot.
Suddenly, it was over. Took down the sound system, loaded equipment into Sid’s vehicle, and caught a ride back to Esther’s. Aglow, aglow!
SunDay, 03-22 Good sleep. Sad news from Kerrville Folk Fest: longtime original funny friendly ambassadorial Vern Crawford has crossed over. Part leprechaun, part sage, champion of the three-breath hug—no one personified the festival spirit more thoroughly than he, who always asked “Howie doin’?” I miss him already.
Set out as a pedestrian. Around the first corner on San Fernando stood the former home of Lee Stautzenberger, one of Dad’s coworkers at Celanese Chemical Company and, like Dad, also from San Antonio and a Jefferson High School graduate. Our family attended several parties in that house. Humor runs deep among smart people: Every Saint Patrick’s Day, Lee would sign his name as O’Stautzenberger.
Carmel Parkway appears as a long narrow green space that doubles as a drainage ditch for this flat landscape. In one of the houses that flank it lived my Uncle William, Mom’s youngest brother, the only sibling born here instead of San Francisco. Like Uncle Emil, William also ran a jewelry store in town and hosted social events at his residence. A school friend, Karen Dennis, lived along Carmel, as well.
The parkway intersects Fort Worth Street, and beneath it I saw remnants of a homeless camp. Passing the soaring water tower, I could hear hundreds of gallons coursing through huge pipes. As a kid, I always wanted to climb that tower, but still haven’t. Liquid Town, like all other Texas liquor stores, locks its doors on Sunday, but I couldn’t help remembering the structure as a convenience store in the early 60s, where I’d bike to buy apple chewing gum. It at one time turned into Underwood’s Barbecue and later located Uncle William’s brief attempt at being a restaurateur.
Behind Town and Country Shopping Center, Junior Terrace (not sure where Senior is) led me to Robert Drive and Seaside Memorial Park and my parents’ graves. They lie a stone’s throw from Selena Quintanilla’s tomb, a frequent destination for the slain musician’s devotees. I spent quiet moments reflecting on Al and Hannah and all they did for my sisters and me. Placed a flower in Dad’s vase and an oyster shell beneath Mom’s name. Many Habeebs also repose there close by.
I needed to find out what went wrong with Catalina Motel. Found the manager, who said that she’d held a room for me the whole weekend. Why wouldn’t she answer the phone? Because they do business only online. Refund? Not a chance. Sorry to lose such money, I chalked the experience up to bad communication under stressed conditions.
An H-E-B anticipated me on Alameda. There I procured a dollar’s worth of hair elastics—likely the smallest expense of the entire adventure. In Town and Country, I treated myself to a Schlotzsky signature sandwich with fountain drink and Cheetos. A couple doors down, Uncle Emil had established the first Habeeb’s Jewelers in 1956.
Marinus and Esther returned that evening. Welcome home! They sipped wine under their screen porch while I quaffed a beer and caught up on news. Esther’s grandmother was a Habeeb, so we’re likely related by blood as well as affection. I helped cook Syrian rice to compliment Brazilian steaks and garden salad. Peach cake made an ideal dessert. With gratitude I reminisced on Esther’s frequent help with Mom’s grooming and daily activities and how much Mom doted on me, her only son.
Staying with the Van Houts turned out better than any cheap motel stay ever could.
MoonDay, 03-23 A fog masked the dawn. Enjoyed a leisurely breakfast, lounged around, caught up on Silver correspondence, read troubling headlines.
In appreciation, I accorded Esther lunch at Logan’s Restaurant in Parkdale Plaza, just over Staples Street. We walked a third of a mile past the former site of Woolco Department Store, where as a youth I bought 45 rpm singles for 99¢. A Walmart Super Center now occupies four acres where my family used to eat Sunday dinners at Piccadilly Cafeteria. Maybe half of the original buildings in Parkdale remain, but when the shopping center opened in 1957—same year that my family moved to the neighborhood from the “old” part of town—it boasted such tenants as H-E-B, Western Auto, Neisner’s five and dime, the Toy House, and JCPenny. I told Esther about the highlight of the holiday season there when Santa Claus arrived by helicopter. She enjoyed French fries while I sampled chicken tenders. I also recollected to her Uncle William’s Buxton’s Jewelers and radio station KRYS, both across Staples.
Time’s a-wastin’. Packed up my stuff and bade good-bye to that happy home’s human, canine, and feline occupants. Esther conveyed me to the Transit Center with her best wishes. Thanks for all the love!
By 2:45, with myself in Seat 2C, that brand-new Van Hool coach churned north on I-37 beyond the refineries, across the nearly dry Nueces River to Mathis. We turned northeast to Skidmore and aligned with US 181. Felt a tinge of nostalgia in Karnes City as we passed the exit to TX 80, which would have been my route to scenic Rancho Richey Refuge if plans hadn’t gone awry.
Just after 5:00, I tottered to the rear to use the latrine. Something lurched, and the stench of burning rubber filled the interior. In jest, merry passengers blamed me. I reported not feeling well. Soon it was obvious to everyone that a tire had gone flat—blown out, in truth. Driver Cisneros (same guy) pulled over atop a concrete apron in Poth and summoned assistance. Some riders expressed dismay over losing connections to subsequent busses. With no such urgency, I stayed cool and calm.
Nothing to do but wait. People hung out in the vehicle’s shade. A couple lads played with their pet lizards. One worker in a pickup truck jacked up the bus, removed the shredded tire, installed a new one on the rim, and pieced everything back together. Thirty-five minutes after sunset, we slogged on our way again north, three hours late.
Pulled into the Greyhound station at 9:15. I guess I wasn’t destined to see the Alamo City in daylight. Hungry for a good hot meal, I once again wheeled my worldlies along Commerce Street, this time past RiverCenter and Hemisfair Plaza to Denny’s on Bowie Street. There the waitstaff brought me battered fish, onion rings, wild rice, and apple juice. All that put a bottom in my stomach, which fullness would satisfy me for the hours still ahead.
Amtrak’s diminutive depot stands behind the grand original 1902 Sunset Station, termed for the Southern Pacific’s Sunset Limited, oldest named train route in these United States. From that old platform in 1961, the year I turned nine, my mom took sisters Rosemary and Carol and yours truly to Los Angeles—my first long-distance rail trip. We boarded around noon and stepped off the next evening around 5:15 to visit friends and family. These days, however, the train leaves in the dead of night.
I lounged in the lobby. Outside, the Tower of the Americas, enduring relic of HemisFair ‘68, shone a bright blue, contrasting with red signal lights along its shaft. Venus also made an appearance. Atop that monument in 1968, at age 16, I used a push-button telephone for the first time.
Tew’sDay, 03-24 Waiting for the 2:50 a.m. departure, I tagged my luggage, rearranged contents, filled a water bottle, unplugged an obnoxious, loud television that nobody was watching, laid back.
Perhaps a dozen fellow travelers queued up on the station’s north side. An unnamed attendant beeped our tickets in turn and assigned us to various coaches, mine being Superliner Car 12. Dragged my massive burdens up narrow stairs to the second level and settled into Seat 17 with no one in 18. The engine horn blew, and away we rolled New Mexico-ward. Sprawled, reclined, closed my weary eyes as South Central Texas receded into the wee hours. Huzzah!
Aurora began to glow around Del Rio, where the train stopped briefly at that city’s fine but vacant station. Paralleled the Rio Grand for a time, long enough to view the hateful border wall.
Why do we build the wall, my children, my children?
We build the wall to keep us free
The wall keeps out the enemy
Because we have and they have not
The enemy is poverty
We build the wall to keep us free.–Anaïs Mitchell, from Hadestown
Walked past the roomettes and sleeping cars to the train’s rear and watched the canyonlands desert trailing behind. Sign urged Do Not Open This Door. OK!
Toted my journal downstairs to the café for a sausage-egg-cheese bagel plus hot coffee. Up into the observation level, I parked self facing north and scribbled more notes about the trip. Kenneth from southern Indiana noticed that activity and opened a conversation. He and his spouse take many boat cruises, but this was their first train ride out west. I provided impromptu, basic interpretation of vegetation and topography. An unnamed laptop guy on my right chimed in with additional facts.
Returned to my coach and rearranged the suitcase contents one final time. Paused in Sanderson, Cactus Capital of Texas, to let pass a freight train. Marathon’s historic Gage Hotel whizzed past. Enjoyed a longer halt in Alpine for a “smoke break” at that station, in full view of the Ritchey Hotel, no relation.
Highest point on the Sunset Limited route, 5,074Ꞌ, occurs at Paisano Pass just east of Marfa. The alert rider knows to look for the tracks’ great curve here, where one can see both ends of the choo-choo from the middle.
Missed seeing the Prava art installation outside Valentine, but traversed into Mountain Daylight Time at 11:11, gaining an hour, at a teeny place called Scotts Crossing over Eagle Flat Draw, far from any major highway.
I sat in the dining car with one Marilyn, who headed to Sacramento for a funeral. My cheeseburger, chips, Coke, and cake set me back $30. Close to the Rio Grande again, abundant agricultural communities welcomed us to El Paso, a.k.a. the Borderplex. Enjoyed a longer break at that station, where many folks enjoyed buying from the Burrito Lady.
After a brief stop in Deming, the train crawled parallel to I-10 and reached the route’s Continental Divide elevation, 5,554Ꞌ, at Wilna. Imagine my surprise when I deboarded at Lordsburg at about 5:10 and saw Dale and Renya, proprietors of the beloved Silver City TranquilBuzz Coffee House. They sent their son via Amtrak to points west. Hugged my Lina, who drove us home to Rose Cottage. My short night’s journey into day came to an end.
“It’s a dangerous business, Frodo, going out your door. You step onto the road, and if you don’t keep your feet, there’s no knowing where you might be swept off to.” ― J.R.R. Tolkien, Lord of Rings
Despite disquiet, I chose to venture forth and cast my fate to the wind. Seems that the real reason we travel is to return. somehow changed.