Fully vaccinated for Covid (July 2021): 42%

El Paso

Population (2020): 678,815

Indigenous inhabitants at colonization: Tigua (Relocated from New Mexico 1680)

El Centro, bumped up against the Mexico border, boasts a lively shopping area, colorful murals, and a busy street scene.

Above and below, Sagrado Corazon (Sacred Heart), on the border’s edge, where cars back up every evening to cross into Mexico.

The local tia surveys the traffic crossing the border.

Above and below, El Centro Market, featuring, among other establishment, House of Blouse and Casa Blanca.

Starr Western Wear, a rather incongruous establishment in this neighborhood, sells every width, length and style of Levi’s.

Elvis makes an appearance at one of the many pawn/jewelry shops.

So let’s see, what we got here: ya gotcher illegal immigrants, overlooked by a scowling immigration official (?); two white priests, one on a bike wearing a creepy expression, gambler types on the right, and of course, pale, crucified Jesus in the middle of it all.

What document is the priest holding? Any guesses?

Relics

Went for dinner at this El Paso hot spot, where, for the first time, I felt less than welcome as a single person. In fairness, when it’s jam-packed, no server wants a table of one. Eventually, I got an outside table in the 106-degree heat; the ginormous margarita helped some.

West Texas Desert

Sierra Blanca

Founded: 1881 Population (2017): 764 Claim to fame: Completion point, Southern Transcontinental Railway

Claim to infamy: Celebrity (and civilian) drug busts

https://www.hollywoodreporter.com/news/general-news/welcome-sierra-blanca-texas-black-378842/

There aren’t many places to pull over between El Paso and Fort Stockton, Texas. But that won’t matter much, because you won’t have the need. In the 100-degree heat, your body becomes a temporary cactus, holding on to every droplet, even though you’ve been chain-swilling water and Gatorade since this morning. Paradoxically, even with the air con set at hurricane force, you’ll sweat.

You’ll finally stop in tiny Sierra Blanca, where the Southern Pacific and the Missouri Pacific railroads joined in 1881. Today your first impression is an abandoned truck stop, its garage reduced to piles of cinder blocks, windows now landscape picture frames, walls grafitti palettes, basement a jumble of charred rafters and plastic trash.

Farther into town, many businesses are closed, some perhaps victims of the Coronavirus, others of long-previous economic downturns. As I’m taking photos, a man in a bright orange Jeep stops and asks if I’m okay (this is common). I say I’m great — just looking around. He says, “Well you just missed the tour — I volunteer at the train station museum. If you stick around till Wednesday, we’ll be open 1 to 4.”

“Okay!” I say, trying to match his enthusiasm. But it’s only Monday. I know I’ll be moving on.

The Sierra Blanca Country Store and Delfina’s Kitchen do a comparatively good business.

Yelp reviewer Wesley G. of Frisco, Texas, noted of Delfina’s, “Had the chicken fajitas outstanding with rice and beans, and a gordita, under 10$ and cleaned my plate. This place is fantastic. Don't forget to visit the salsa bar.”

And Scott T. of Lawrence, Kansas, wrote, “The gorditas were quite good though the kitchen is using pre-shredded cheese which is sort of a turnoff. The sauces appeared to be locally made and were contained on a serving island in the middle that included of all things sriracha-mayo--that staple of all Mexican diets, right? Weird. …

“Questionable cleanliness and a corner of the restaurant that looked part failed gift shop and storage for whatever is needed. But in a town with so few other choices, I'd stop here again. Not many choices on this very lonely stretch of the interstate between Van Horn and El Paso!”

I didn’t stop to eat, but the man driving the red bike above nodded when I asked whether the food was good.

High on a dusty shelf in the gift shop, I found a proper hat — sturdy and no-nonsense, with a chin strap and a flap in back to ward off sun and windblown sand. A gust that attacked me in town embedded sand and grit in my hair and neck in seconds; no thanks. For 10 bucks, I’d say it was the best buy of my trip.

The 20-something man at the counter, apparently to let me know he’s meant for “better” occupations, takes pains to explain that this is his grandpa’s store, that he is just filling in while grandpa’s in El Paso for the day. By the time I leave, he’s back in his chair in front of the fan, scanning his phone.

This gas station just outside of town has been abandoned for at least 10 years, according to a resident who was also there taking pictures. “One day I drove by and it was just shut down,” he said. “They just left.”

Over the years, a garage to the left has collapsed, as has the floor of the store, revealing a basement; graffiti artists have made their mark, and many have thrown drink bottles and other trash around.

Paneless windows frame the desert, echoing its browns and whites.

A building across the street also frames the desert — here, some greenery.

This business — possibly a restaurant? — in downtown Sierra Blanca looks as if it’s been empty for some time.

Fort Stockton

“ Fort Stockton’s history reflects the tale of the American frontier. In 1858, soldiers of the 1st and 8th Infantries arrived from nearly Fort Lancaster to a garrison … known as Camp Stockton. They were tasked with protecting travelers heading west to Mexico and California from San Antonio, many of whom used the area as a stopping point due to abundance of water provided by the springs.

In 1867, the camp gave way to the new, more permanent Fort Stockton, and troops would remain stationed there until it was finally abandoned in 1886. By then, the threat of Indian attack was over and farmers had moved in to grow crops by irrigating with the natural springs and the Pecos River.

Sheep and cattle ranches started to thrive, bringing to town cowboys and gunslingers before 20th-century civilization won the day and the Old West faded into the sunset. ”

— from www.tourtexas.com, a publication of AJR Media Group

“ If you go back through Comanche history, you see that they were the ones who stopped the Spanish from coming North. … Why did the French stop coming west from Louisiana? Comanches … Here was why the West Coast and the East Coast settled before the middle of the country. Here was why there was basically a 40-year wait before you could develop the state of Texas or before other Plains states could be developed. ”

— S. C. Gwynne, author of The Rise and Fall of The Comanche Empire, on NPR’s “Fresh Air,” May 20, 2011

Old West fading into the sunset?

Live music, downtown Fort Stockton

Free

Desert gardening

The Gray Mule Saloon, where I tasted Texas wines. I recommend the Escondido Valley Sauvignon Blanc 2019, estate grown in the Escondido Valley, Texas. As the name suggests.

Boerne [Coming soon]

Galveston Island

“ I blew into Galveston, was feelin’ bout half past dead

I just need some place where I can lay my head ”

— Alvar Nunez Cabeza de Vaca, 1528, channeling Robbie Robertson

In November 1528, Cabeza de Vaca and 80 men got separated from the rest of their crew and drifted along the Gulf Coast on two makeshift rafts for four days. A hurricane blew in, capsizing one of the rafts. Survivors clambered onto de Vaca’s already full raft. Here’s how he tells the story:

“And with it being winter and the cold very great and so many days that we suffered hunger along with the blows that we had received from the sea, the next day the people began to faint in such a manner that when the sun set all those that came in my raft were fallen on top of one another in it, so close to death that few were conscious. And among all of them at this hour not five men were left standing. .. only the helmsman and I were still able to guide the raft. And two hours into the night, the helmsman told me that I should take charge of it, because … he thought he would die that very night.

“ … near dawn, it seemed to me that I was hearing the rise and fall of the sea because, since the coast was a shoal, the waves broke loudly. … We took a sounding and found ourselves in seven fathoms of water … near land a wave took us that pitched the raft out of the water the distance of a horseshoe’s throw, and with the great blow that its fall occasioned, almost all the people who were nearly dead upon it regained consciousness. And since they saw themselves near land, they began to leave the raft half walking, half crawling.

Here they lived, on an island they came to call Malhado (misfortune), enslaved by a Native group (possibly the Karankawa) for 6 and a half years. De Vaca’s was tough, smart, and likely good with people: they often sent him to trade with other tribes in the area, experiences that helped him map out the area and plot his eventual escape.

My arrival in Galveston, in June 2021, was somewhat less dramatic — though it was raining, and Houston traffic was a beast, so I suffered nonetheless. After four hours of hard driving, shallow water wound through bright-green swirls of grass appeared on both sides of the road. I’d call that an intercoastal waterway, though a sign informed me it was Galveston’s Estuarial Corridor. I drove straight to my (shared) cottage opposite the Seawall — to the very beach onto which de Vaca and company staggered some 500 years ago. Below, a little of what I saw:

Galveston Bay, unsafe for swimming today — and in November 1528.

Could this be the manifestation of the Spaniards’ hallucinations, upon reaching land?

Must we, though? Face our fears? By scaring the shit out of ourselves … on purpose?

Isn’t life scary enough, all on its own?

… But not for me — not always. Not in my sweet cottage by the sea. I must be the luckiest gal alive.

INT., LITTLE DADDY’S DUMBO BAR, DOWNTOWN GALVESTON — NIGHT

I sit at the bar staring into space while the chef drops a handful of fresh shrimp into the bartop cook pot for my seafood gumbo.

He

You okay?

Me

Oh yeah I’m fine. Just thinking about … everything. (beat) Are you okay?

He

(Waggles his hand to signal, just so-so)

Me

Oh. Tired?

He

Yeah, that’s part of it. (Pause). I just can’t sleep.

Me

Wow, I know how that is.

He

Yeah last night I was up till the the sun came up.

Me

Yeah, and knowing you have to get up for work just makes it worse.

He

Uh huh. (pause). I don’t know why. Everything just keeps running around in my mind.

(He finishes making the gumbo, ladles it into a bowl, adds an ice-cream scoop of rice, sprinkles chopped green onions on top and sets the bowl in front of me).

Me:

(Spoons some up greedily. I’ve hardly eaten today. It’s delicious.)

Ferry from Galveston Island to the Bolivar Peninsula

Galveston Island State Park

I was underwhelmed by the Bonita Peninsula, and I returned discouraged. It was late afternoon and I was feeling a little sorry for myself, being without a companion in this beach town where everyone seemed to have an entourage.

I’d heard that the state park, right in town, was beautiful and unspoiled. Maybe I could get some shots of what Galveston Island had looked to its indigenous and Spanish inhabitants in the 1500s.

I drove by an empty ticket booth and signs announcing that parts of the park were closed. The road wound through lush swampland and small ponds, and I thought I could see the bay in the distance.

At a small campground, a woman who looked like she belonged there was loping across the lawn.

“Excuse me, is there any access to the water here?”

The woman smirked slightly and gestured toward a watery break in the reeds.

“That’s it.”

She sat down and took off her tall rubber boots.

“You’ll need these.”

“What? Oh — really? Yeah I guess these sandals won’t work.”

“Sure. Put ‘em on. It’s beautiful out there. But the water’s deep in places. There’s bugs. And alligators. I saw a baby one the other day, but it didn’t bother me.”

I’m now much less enthused about finding the water, boots notwithstanding. Not wanting to appear the city wimp, I clomp toward the water in the oversized boots.

The water is way deeper than I expected — up to the top of my boots in some places. But the bay shimmers, the swamp grasses a bright green against the dark water — and there are birds everywhere. Pelicans, plovers, seagulls, and others whose names I don’t know. Frogs croak so loud they must be compensating for being tiny. Still, I’m certain I’m inches from an alligator the whole time. I splash around as noisily as possible. Like the frogs, I’m trying to sound way larger than I am.

A pelican dives into the water and scoops up a fish, with two blackbirds on his tail. They fight him for the fish, but he gulps it a flies off, pursued by the blackbirds. They’re a good distraction from lurking alligators.

Eventually, I go back to the campsite to return the boots. She comes toward me holding out a t-shirt. She slams the door and hands me a t-shirt. She speaks quickly, running her words together as if she’s running out of time.

“Here I got it at a Five Below but I’ve never worn it. I’ve been losing and gaining weight back and forth — now I’m really fat.'“ (She isn’t.) “It’s more your size.”

The shirt is colorful, featuring Smoky the Bear and his usual message. I demur, but she insists.

I say something about how beautiful it is here — peaceful, and right by the water.

“Yeah it’s nice. At the RV site over there, you can get to the water — but the showers are shit. But Galveston — there’s a lot of problems. All the hotels, they’re building them everywhere. And the historic houses — they used to be good about preservation, but one they just sold to a law firm! Or they’re letting them rot. But the new mayor, Craig Brown, he’s good. He’s really into preservation.”

I tell her I’ve just come from Arizona, where temperatures got up to 118.

“Yeah,” she scoffs. “Try that with a cat and no AC.” I notice a wary-looking tabby with light green eyes in the back seat of her car.

“I’m here because my boyfriend got paroled and decided to act crazy, so I got evicted.”

She grew up here, she says, and left to live in Santa Fe for years. “I want to be in California, where my daughter lives. I’d love to be there.”

She says she’s camped all over Texas, using her state parks pass. She says I have to go to Big Bend, a park to the north, and pulls a brochure from a basket overflowing with travel books, maps, and brochures.

I dig in my wallet and come up with a measly ten dollars, which I leave on the passenger seat. “It’s not very much. But get a treat maybe,” I say, but I’m not sure she hears me. Oh well, she’ll find it.

As a final thought, she tells me to go see Rosewood, an old African-American cemetery.

“The hotels built all around it — now it’s just a a tiny little place in the middle of all these hotels, and all the gravesites got flooded. The historical commission didn’t do anything. It’s just a shame.”

I promise her I’ll go, say I have to get going, thanks for telling me about the park, and happy birthday. She wishes me a great trip. “Hey, I didn’t get your name?”

“Lisa.”

“Lisa. I’m Sheryl.”

“Happy birthday, Sheryl. Thanks for the shirt … and the boots.”

I walk to the car, and notice that the air has gone still, and it’s gotten hotter. I’m sweating all over — but I’ve got an air-conditioned car and a nice place to stay.

Much later, L’esprit d’escalier pays me a visit: I should’ve given her my tent! Why didn’t I give her my tent?

When Cabeza de Vaca and his few companions were washed onto Galveston Island after six days on a raft, the inhabitants (Adorno and Pautz say they were either the Capoques or the Han) are wary but fairly quickly decide these Spaniards are harmless, and brought the men “much fish and some roots that they eat, which are like nuts, some larger, some smaller; the majority of them they dig out from under water with great difficulty” (85).

While Cabeza never identifies these roots, one marsh plant native to the area is Claytonia virginica, the white flowers pictured above, which I found in the swamp that day (texasbeyondhistory.net).