Austin, TX: Part One

Austin, TX: The Home of Lone Star Beers, Prickly Pears, and Constant Music for your Ears

Bed one was a 4AM blow-up mattress pad,

Bed two, a HI Austin hostel bunk with a lady who nibbled my sandwiches.

Bed three was a Drifting Jack's co-ed bunk 

and bed four was Ferny's Prius.

Day One: Cheer Up Charlie's  Summer Salt show

I hadn't met Evan and Aasiyah, the bridge engineers, prior to sleeping in their living room.
They were friends through a mutual friend, Xander, and I'd crash on their mattress pad as I got my bearings in the city.
It was a Friday night when I arrived and everyone was about to see a show-

Their living room's floor space was swallowed by folks sitting and standing, ready to dance.
We played the "Tell us your name and a fun fact about you" game when I entered.
I was June with a goal to eat every edible fruit listed on the long Wiki page of produce.
Danny was the snowboarder, Evelyn the traveler, Cameron the biker and so on.
We made our introductions, drank our Shiners and Lone Stars, then crammed into vehicles.

Inside Cheer Up Charlies, the bartender sported menu options such as
The Golden Ticket: whiskey, kombucha, ginger and lavender
Rosie Cheek: vodka, watermelon, rosewater and raspberry
Spicy Cuban: Rum, mango, elder flower and habanero
and
Kale and ginger margaritas.
Cheeky. Tasty. 

The venue was painted in spacey geometrical patterns and rocked a disco ball. Inside, Aasiyah and Evan swayed to the music while the rest of our group mingled in the crowd. They had the ambiance of a dive bar catered to quirky, music-obsessed locals. 
Live music, I'd come to find, was a non-stop ordeal in Austin, TX.

We danced this venue then that and ended up at Barbarella's where everyone wrapped arms in a group hug to sway with the last song, "Don't Stop Believing". The bar was jam-packed with stilettos, sweaty club clothes and weathered bar booths. The house lights came on and everyone herded out the door.

That was night one.

Day Two:  Pedernales Falls State Park

Daylight peered in after only 3 hours of rest, but we had a hike to do.
Pedernales called, and Shari, Aaisyah, Evan, Nick and Trey strove to trek its limestone pools and falls before the light faded once more.

A winding drive in, a rocky hike out, a slippery step through and a shady rock within the park entertained our senses. We stopped in our tracks once or thrice, hopping wet rocks until they led often only to dead-end currents.
At the day's end, we found a hike to a 3-mile summit.
The sun yellowed everything it touched, and at sunset, we sat atop the Pedernales peak and breathed the four winds in.

Man and his best friend atop Perdaneles' trails 

Day Two: Greenbelt and Hi Austin Hostel

The Barton Creek Greenbelt consisted of 7.8 miles of limestone bluffs, trickling creeks, freshly-drenched dogs, kids learning how to swim and exceptional amounts of greenery.
Tree roots grew exposed under the waterline, rocks bleached in the sun, cacti pricked along the trail, and climbers clinked to rock faces on cliffs.

It was pretty spectacular.

Cacti growing on the Greenbelt

I made my way through the brush, taking note of the limestone caves and creek bed rocks. Plenty of runners huffed past me and countless dogs sniffed my ankles, but for the most part I was meditating alone through the trail. It was nice, the quiet surrounding me.
I thought about the change in landscape from home.
Nothing in Florida or Carolina matched this.
With blue bonnets, the state flower, springing up in every grassy meadow, the Texas here wasn't the desert I expected. It was lively, it was thorny, it was Western.
Nature created a spectacular art piece, but I wanted to see the art the people of Austin made as well.
Hence, I visited Graffitti Park.

Graffiti walls at HOPE park

Atop Castle Hill, Graffiti Park resides where building foundations long forgotten have transformed into a concentrated free-expression zone.

Trash cans overflow with empty spray paint as artists perfect their line weight and surrounding bushes caught stray mists of color and took on new, vibrant identities. Youngsters shook their first cans of color, pondering the impossible task of picking just one thing at a time to paint.

Little guy learning how to spray his first tags

I met a mother and her son playing with spray bottles. When I asked for a picture, she said,
"He's going to grow up and be an artist." It was his first tag.

I left the Graffiti Park and soon found art in the architecture. It was sunset and the city lit up.
With my Magnolia Cafe Love Veggies dinner to-go in hand, I put my tripod to use on the Lakeshore trail and I snapped a skyline reminder between bites. That food swarmed with delicious seasonings.
This city buzzed with glowing delightfulness.
It was the home I wanted and it was the home I would make mine- eventually.

The view of Austin from Hi Austin Hostel's backyard

That night, I stayed at the ultra-clean, super organized Hi Austin Hostel.
Inside, a duo of British blokes named Jack and Jack gave my ukulele a go while a set of sweet, coy ladies lolled around in the kitchen munching the free, fresh bread.

The sweet, coy ladies became less timid as I made a sandwich.
Not only did they become friendly, they got hungry.

Lauren, the quirky Colorado native, told me my peanut butter apple sandwich looked glorious.
She simply must have a bite.
Upon cutting her a piece and witnessing her chew it, she picked up my sandwich's entire other half and seized it. Fine. I carried on. She had no intention of giving that half back.
"Do you have napkins?" she asked. No, I had no napkins.
"Could you get me one?" No, I, yes, okay fine, I got her a napkin and finished my sandwich outside.

I talked to the glorious hostel host, Nick, who shared wisdoms of events happening the next day.
Chicken shit bingo, he said, was happening the next afternoon.
Chicken shit bingo, eh? I'd give it a go.

Day Three: Chicken Shit Bingo, Bats and Dirty 6th Street

Sunday means chicken shit bingo. Chicken shit bingo means exactly what its title implies.
It means C Boys Heart & Soul Bar, with its forever-Christmas lights and Mardi Gras beads, hosts an afternoon with a bunch of chickens pooping on a Bingo board.
Live music plays and folks chase a lady with a burlap bag, trying to buy raffle tickets for a chance to win money.
I traded two bucks for a red ticket with a "25" written on it but Loretta, the chicken who was up, ate all the grains on 41 and pooped there instead. Bummer.
A flock of other chickens, one at a time, took Loretta's place and I lacked the gambling craving to buy more goes.
"The suspense kills," a man in a Harley Davidson shirt yelled, waiting.
It pooped. A guy named Michael won.
"Michael, quit your job! You just won chicken shit bingo," the front man of the band announced.
I quit hanging around the poop and got some fresh air.
Besides, I had bat poop to avoid soon enough at sunset.

Onlookers witnessing Chicken Shit Bingo at C Boys Heart & Soul Bar

Around 45 minutes before daylight ceases, countless bats at Statesman's Observation Center flew from under the South Congress Bridge in order to eat the sky's buffet of bugs. Before they came out, the bats chirped in waves, waking their cousins and friends until finally the chirps turned into a loud assembly of ready wings as a crowd formed by the water.

When I went, a man with an ice-cream cart hustled through the grass, offering sweet treats to onlookers.
Kids ran circles around their sitting parents.
"Is it sunset yet, is it sunset yet?" a little blond boy with glasses kept asking, tugging on his mom's shirt.
It was almost time, but not quite. The bats, responsible for pollinating agave, banana, cloves and durian, among other plants, had stage fright. They wanted to wait until it was barely daytime. The kids would have to wait.
While kids practiced patience, sort of, a mime kept waving at us from atop the bridge.
He made charade motions with his bat-hat implying we were going to get pooped on.
We didn't.
We watched from the river, a far better view in my opinion than from the bridge.

Bats coming out from under the South Congress bridge at sunset

When the view faded, it was high time for me to find my second hostel, Drifter Jacks.

Outside, they had murals on every wall. A pool table beckoned me along the AstroTurf patio area. The staircase lead me into a hallway with Jack Kerouac quotes and music blasting from a mini-speaker. 

Shay was the hostel hostess. Shay was the queen-of-cool. Shay wiggled her shoulders to the music, waiting for my reservation to go through as she told me they gave everyone over 21 a pin for free drinks next door, one-per-person, every night. This was my cup of tea. This was my kind of jam. 

The outside of Drifter Jack's Hostel, photo courtesy of Trip Advisor

Shay said the only rooms available for the night were co-ed. I hadn't ever tried out a co-ed bunk room, but it was my only option so I obliged. Coy upon entering, I noticed a gentleman sorting through his bags. I was going to use the bathroom to change, but another guy was manning the facilities. As I looked at the names on the bunks and no girls names stood out but mine. 

A moment passed and I asked the German guy Ralph if perhaps he wouldn't mind stepping out for just a moment so I could change.

"I don't mind girls changing in front of me," he responded. 

I felt a little odd about how he said it, so I bought some time sorting through my things. Eventually, I just changed swim-team style, putting my new clothes atop old garments and wiggling out of the bottom layer. He laughed at me and I squirmed my last sock on, power walking to the common room.

The Australian flight attendant, Amba, invited me out to drink with the boys.

She met me by the sofa and introduced herself along with her reason for lingering in Austin. She had a 72-hour layover from Houston. Carl was from the UK on a wanderlust excursion. Tommy, the Italian dancing machine, was taking a weekend away from opening a Dallas restaurant. Luke was supposed to be in Austin with his lady friend, but she missed her flight.  We were all to be hostel comrades. We were all to be at The Highball for Motown and swing dancing. 

We would all end up at dirty 6th street for dive bar hopping and dance move competing. 

8 miles of walking later, poor Amba in her heels took a victorious last step up the hostel stairs, she threw her shoes off and concluded the night a success. We team-breaked and hit the bunks. 

Tomorrow we would see Hamilton Pool. Well, all of us but Carl, who would stay up the rest of the night to leave for a 4AM flight. He brewed a coffee and we bid him adieu.

What a sad thing, hostel goodbyes are- never knowing if you'll ever see those faces again.

At least I'd see 3/4ths of them tomorrow.

"In bocca al lupo," Tommy bid Carl. Italian for good luck, he said.

Day Four: Hamilton Pool with the Hostel Kids

Amba, Tommy, Luke and I in the truck toward Hamilton Pool

After an hour of driving, the entrance sign read: NO SWIMMING TODAY DUE TO UNSAFE BACTERIA LEVELS and Luke, the driver, bit his lip.

He looked at his towel and shrugged. 

We all tucked our swim stuff back into the backseat and found our way to the collapsed underground river dome. It was a swimming hole with a 50-foot waterfall within a canyon area, formed from erosion.

The swimming hole of Hamilton Pool

With little regard to the signs, Luke doused in its stream and came out smiling like he'd successfully stolen a cookie before dinner. Satisfaction was in his eyes.
Soon enough, Spider House Cafe slam poetry would find its way into his ears.

That night, the sequin-toupee hostess riled up the crowd with hints of the "New Shit Night" slam.
Everything we would hear onstage was never heard before. The poets competed for a first place Benjamin-bill prize.

Danny Trail started off the night,

"My cat Franny is at war with everything. She pees on everything. She reminds me of America. We need to stop pissing on everything. May conservatives turn into conservationists."

 The red lit stage housed a flying golden cupid, poised as if waiting to high five the contestants. The hostess read terrible Tinder first lines while performers entered and left the stage. A drunk poet came up to the mic. He slurred something about the government and Lone Star Beers creating conspiracies.
The judges ranked his piece a 6.7 out of 10.

We left with stanzas poured into our bloodstreams and chatted about philosophies until sleep called.

Tomorrow would be a big day. I had to ready my pulse to pick up hammers.
Tomorrow I would build houses with Habitats for Humanities.

Day Five: Habitats for Humanities and Making Habitats out of Prius Hatchbacks

Mark, a 17-year-old volunteer, nails a roof with Habitats for Humanities

I'd never nailed sidings to a house, trusted scaffolding or really ever touched a power tool with confidence. Mostly, that's because I'd never worked for Habitats for Humanities. Phil and Nate, the organizers, showed me the ropes while Steve gave me patient instructions on how to properly use a hand saw.

I signed my waiver and noticed a kid on the roof. He had no fear climbing the wobbly ladders to the bird's eye view of the house. He sat Michelangelo-angled-hammering onto the roof shingles.

The sun was beaming, the heat was scorching, the Texas wind was unfriendly. Everyone was sweating, meeting occasionally by the big orange water cooler. 

This team was working on 6 houses simultaneously from the ground up and there was plenty of work to be done.

Their mission was to eliminate the cycle of poverty by creating affordable houses through sweat equity. Home owners of HFH houses had to put a down payment of 300 work hours into any given organization project. They could either help build their or their neighbors homes or they could work at the Re-Store where just about anyone could buy pieces for building projects at an a low price, hence, on the work site, a few future home owners worked away with us.

For four years I'd meant to work with Habitats for Humanities.

I probably wouldn't have gone still if not for Blue's and my road trip.

Albeit she couldn't hammer away or novicely saw wood with me, she was in the air doing some witnessing, keeping her eye out for all those loose nails (which were plentiful). 

Measure, chalk, chop. Measure, chalk, chop. I was getting the hang of it. Before long, my safety goggles and I were covered in saw dust and sweat and it was the end of the day.

Kabi and I wrapped a bunch of wires and handed them to the boys on the truck.

Mark got off the roof and monkeyed down the scaffolding. 

We were all tired and our work day was done.

 Shiferaw, Phil and Nate loading up the truck at the days end

Now, the question of the night arose. 

Ferny, with her love for all things minimalist, contemplated ditching the hostel to save a wad of cash. Ditching meant more money for strawberry milk and Whole Foods miscellaneousness.

Ferny took the last bite of food-truck rice and said we should go for it.

She introduced me to her hatchback, lovingly named Morismo- mystery in Spanish, and we got in.

She had the set-up mastered. 

Her bags were tucked behind the driver's seat and her yoga mat spread out on her folded down seats. 

There was definitely room for two.

As long as both of those two were about 4'2.

Which we weren't, but we sure perfected the Tetris-squish.

We squeezed in and made our diagonal way into a comfortable spot. 

She handed me a black opaque curtain with Velcro and informed me of how to attach it to the ceiling.

We stuck the curtains in a long square and fit compactly inside the now-private backseat. 

Mission success. 

We parked our cars close together on a residential block where a fence separated our car from our new neighbors' vantage point. I climbed into her backseat and we talked about fasting.

In the morning, with our flowery tree covered view of the block, we woke to a sunny disposition and a decision to seize the day with fasting and yoga at the park.

Our Prius motel's morning view from the hatchback window

To Mueller's Lake Park we roamed.

We binged on water and sun salutation stretches, 

talked to Whole Foods folks about the best ways to break a fast

and made our way back to the Prius the next night.

For the next 4 days, the Prius was our free motel. 

She said she hadn't slept in that thing since Portland,

Portland be damned, we were making it her home once more, and I was stoked to be her guest.