The Write Thing

My US travels are drawing to a close again. As it happened a little earlier last year, July brought an ending of sorts to my long planes this way…for now at least. It has been a good adventure this time, with certain discoveries that still leave me with mixed feelings, but that I guess I should welcome as part of the uncertain flux of life.

The weekend found me looking for the right package to send a little something to someone on the west of me on Saturday morning, as the Houston sun promised another scorching summer day. A sudden thought had me calling the San Jose hotel in Austin at around noon, to find out they were fully booked. The second option was the standard OMNI chain, which turned out to be worse than a teenage campsite, with metallic American voices resonating down the hallway at 4.00 am, accompanied by drunk knocks on my door a few minutes later. However, even while the night was not as accomplished as I had wished, the day was good. Maybe because 45 minutes of my drive were spent on the phone with her, talking, laughing and missing each other — maybe it is time to acknowledge that distance and estrangement is part of an unspoken deal here — and because Austin’s 6th street was fun to stroll up and down.

In the early afternoon of this Sunday, which will mark my last night spent on US soil, before I started driving back to a makeshift “home” of sorts down McCue Road, across from the Galleria Mall, I stopped by Austin’s famous Town Lake park. I like the way the US does some things, suddenly offering enormous amounts of nature for free to the city dwellers and their visitors. People walk down the shady paths, sit down by a generous cliff overlooking the lake where casual rowing boats design capricious shapes, or simply ride their bikes down the trails, which still offer some rest from the burning sun. I took a short walk left of the entrance, and caught glimpses of the lake hiding behind overgrown trees. The path went down, and at some intersections the odd bench would be found. Now I realize I chose the third one, and it had this especially dedicated plate. I thought it would be a good place where to start a mission that I had not really planned. The book I had just finished reading is Stieg Larsson’s The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo. Since I bought it in Buenos Aires, I read it in Spanish. I left it on that bench, sheltered in the shade, until someone hopefully would pick it up in good faith, and enjoy it.

I am beginning to like the exercise of leaving some things behind…

My dearest Geisha and Miss F had the kindness of proposing this little game by which, if I understood the rules correctly, involves opening three books at hand and quoting line 5 on page 161 in each. Oddly enough, because I am temporarily staying in foreign territory, my availability of books is limited. However, I do have three — four, if I consider a Grammar of Usage in English, but I will not quote that one.

Here I go:

Paris Stories by Mavis Gallant: Lydia poured Speck’s tea in an offhand manner he found wounding.

The Portable Hawthorne by Malcolm Cowley: “Remain in the arbor,” whispered the sculptor to the figure that leaned upon his arm. “You will know whether, and when, to make your appearance.”

Los hombres que no amaban a las mujeres by Stieg Larsson: “Dediqué los primeros veinticinco o treinta años de mi vida a disculpar y perdonar a gente como Harald porque éramos familia.”

Now, given that many of my readers and read ones have already taken part in this game, I am afraid I do not have as many options as I would like to. However, I’ll take my chances. The ball now is passed to:

Lola
Flash-me
Erica

…and all of those who would like to join in. Sorry I was short of candidates. It may be the late hour here, or simply that some of my candidates have already been proposed this little dalliance with books. Anyway, if those appointed have already been approached, I apologize for my belated arrival. Otherwise, please enjoy…

My last week in Houston for now. Leaving Friday for the Buenos Aires chaos so familiar to me. On my last Sunday in this city I decided that another visit to Galveston was a good idea. Galveston is the nearest port to Houston, and a small town very much in the American fashion. It looks highly conservative, as I imagine Cape Cod to be. There is not a hint of the Austin bravado, with naked gay parades and the like. No, sir. Galveston is prim and proper, a lady in a fake New Orleans dress.

Today I headed for Harborside Drive, on the other side of the sea, right at the tip of the island. I had a good lunch at Willie G’s Seafood and Steakhouse (well, I must finally face the good old days of fancy French restaurants may be over — at least for a while), and walked around the other side of town, closer to The Strand, right in the heart of the city. I saw a sign that read “antique books” right before me. That combination of words would be enough to draw me into the worst of suburbs in any city, or put me at risk of being kidnapped by guerrilla soldiers. No need here, where security standards differ highly from those I was forced to come to terms with in Bogota a week ago. As I walked enthusiastically to meet the lovely end of the corridor in the galleria that housed the store (imagine a Gallerie Vivienne, in pastel colors but with a touch of TGI Friday’s), I paused before the dark, spacious premises. The shop was closed. The sign declaring bankruptcy was slightly ambiguous. I think it read:

Antique books are out of business. Please ask for a key at shop number 2 if you are interested in buying books

Shop number 2 seemed on the verge of meeting a similar death, in the hands of capitalism gone sour. I should read this as a symbol of the decline of the American Empire, much in line with the death of Ancient Rome. Or else, I can simplify the issue, be less dramatic, and simply say that books are out of business in Galveston….Gumbo anyone?