I wake up in the delightfully retro Austin Motel and see that the childproof top remains on the ibuprofen, which means I did not make it to midnight to hear Bobby Rush at the Continental Club. And that means I’m likely to finish my waltz across Texas without any music.
All my adult life I’ve wanted to visit Austin, a happening spot. But I’m too old for concerts that start at midnight. And that was about the only musical game in town this hot August night. At least the only one that my buddy Sandy and I could find — and, trust me, we looked.
The next day we wade through 100-degree heat to the Waterloo record store and buy Jerry Jeff Walker and James McMurtry CDs and a couple of “I’m With Willie” T-shirts and have to be satisfied.
There’s that joke in response to Texans who want to secede from the union, and judging from the signs and bumper stickers, there’s a passel of them. The joke says: “Fine. Go ahead. Secede. Just leave us Austin and Willie.”
I say just leave us Willie.
We ride on, forgetting our magnetic Thelma and Louise sign for five minutes at a Hill Country gas station only to have it stolen. Without credentials, we feel silly in our cowboy hats, one marked “Sale Price $31.99.” I pull off the sticker and see another tag: $21.99.
We drive down Buddy Holly Avenue in Lubbock and sleep near Waylon Jennings Boulevard in Littlefield. But we can’t find a honkytonk with live music.
At a barbecue joint near Wichita Falls, a sign says our firearms are welcome. The owner doesn’t make much effort to welcome us. The raunchy political signs all over his establishment ruin the taste of a good cheeseburger.
After an odyssey of 2,500 miles, we make Breaux Bridge, La., and things improve. Music is everywhere. We spend the night along the Bayou Teche, and hear classic Cajun across the road at the iconic dance hall now called Pont Breaux.
The next morning, my friend Greg Guirard serves us crawfish cornbread, which we break with his special guest Yvette Landry, the Cajun country singer. Her album “No Man’s Land” is one of my favorites. She wades barefoot in the swamp to help launch Greg’s boat, then, back at the house in her cowboy boots, serenades us.
Texas may go to hell, and I will go to Louisiana.
The Dispatch Editorial Board is made up of publisher Peter Imes, columnist Slim Smith, managing editor Zack Plair and senior newsroom staff.
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