A Fat Purple Fig

We follow the directions to collect our car, and are met by a young guy who greets us and says, ‘…if y’all will follow me.’ He asks where we are from. ‘Australia,’ I reply, ‘…and that’s the first time we have ever heard someone say ‘y’all.’’ He grins.

‘Welcome to the South.’

We see two things in Houston that knock us for six, right off the bat; a guy trotting on his horse down the centre strip, holding a bottle in a brown paper bag, and a child no older than ten driving his quad bike into a gas station.

‘Holy shit!’ we shout, ‘it’s the Wild West.’

After a near-perfect stopover (basic motel, blackout curtains, UberEats, ‘The People’s Court’) we tackle the three-hour drive to Austin. Recognising that things look different is easy; less-straightforward is figuring out the specifics. Kitty ponders for a moment.

‘It’s like the colour of the place is different,’ she posits.

She’s on the money – the colour of the place is different. Fall colours have bypassed Texas, and we decide the landscape is the closest we have seen so far to Australia. It’s not exactly an Aussie green, but there is a flatness and dryness that lends itself to home. I love the signs – they represent the state’s almost-40% Latino population, amidst a whole heap of red, white and blue. ‘Make America Great Again‘ banners for Trump and Vance are all over the place, as are billboards in support of Israel – ‘you don’t have to be Jewish to support Jews.‘

The car-crash attorneys are playing a competitive game – there are billboards all over the place, trying to outdo one another in the slogan stakes. ‘Call the Lee-der’, ‘Don’t Get The Shaft‘, ‘Give Dick a Try‘. Rear-enders must be big business in these parts. It starts to make sense when the speed limit ramps up to 80mph, at which there is still a steady stream of trucks (as in big utes) trying to overtake. I hug the right and try to keep up a pace that won’t make drivers hate me.

The land is flat. It occurs to me that a ranch is just a farm (technically, it’s the equivalent of a station), and stop looking for something remarkable on the roadsides. What we do notice is how many housing developments are dotted around the countryside, creating mini housing estates that are, in Kitty-speak, ‘in the middle of bumfuck nowhere.‘

We cross county lines, spotting distinctive water towers – many of which are labelled with the names of their county seats – and becoming acquainted with the state’s tall overpass roads. Later, I’m gratified to find an article entitled, ‘Why Does Texas Have So Many Insanely Tall Overpasses?’ Why, indeed? It’s like driving into the sky on a sweeping arc – and like nothing I have ever experienced. There is a fabulous explanation of the interchanges here, but I prefer to stick with a much-simpler reason.

Everything is bigger in Texas.

‘How about we only listen to country music from now?’ Kitty suggests. Sure thing, ma’am, sounds good to me. I need something consistent and soothing to cope with the driving. By the time we reach Austin, we haven’t seen a single speed camera or law enforcement vehicle of any description. I’m not saying that’s a bad thing – but Texas roads are a law unto themselves. They lyrics start to sound ominous;

‘Life packed in the Chevrolet
Every corner, I see your face
Two hearts break, only one can stay
Takin’ one last drive down main…‘

Later, I Google ‘describe Texan drivers’ and find out they were ranked the worst drivers in the country. Heartbreak didn’t kill him, I promise you that – it was the 80mph down Main.

We stop at a Home Depot, to buy a tape measure (long story). It’s the American equivalent of Bunnings, with huge aisles and a million-and-one products. We buy an inches-only measure, and Kitty lets me take a picture of her beside our Mazda. Note: the parking spots are – surprise, surprise – bigger here.

We see our first ‘Harris Walz’ banners at our destination, Round Rock, and decide that’s an excellent sign. Fifteen miles north of Austin, the city has a population of 130,000, but our section feels like a small, country-and-western-themed community. When we pull up outside our little carriage house, a squirrel freezes on the tree in front of us, a giant nut in his mouth. Inside, there is a welcome message on the chalk board, and a box of famous, Round Rock donuts in the fridge.

Here we are, in The Lone Star State.