Rapprochement: Scene 1

I like creeks. So when cajoled (I was clearly over eager) to accompany some amigos on a journey to that liberal bastion Austin, I of course accepted after some protest of practicality. Last week was buuuusy. As with all institutions the balance between selflessness and self-interest and slips precipitously under the following circumstances: inordinate pressure. Given a fake-hurricane, missing bosses, and a repellent schedule I clearly slipped by Friday. Forgive the lack of detail.

But let's start at the beginning. I quickly finish my work/academic responsibilities in Houston's western concrete bowels and swiftly navigate slow drivers, evening traffic, and an insufferable heat in Eva, my trustworthy 1994 E320. She (until that point) hadn't experienced that level of brutishness since Bavaria I imagine. I arrive to Rice Village and quickly find parking and run to Uncle Funky's Daughter for my appointment. Gotta get the locks maintained.

Tonya is gracious as always, and we (her more than I) comfort a newly dreadlocked Texan/New Yorker. My spine tickles with the cool drops dripping from my immaculately clean locks and watch the clock earnestly. My flight to Austin is at 7:50p and its about 6:15p (we'll ignore the obvious yuppiness of flying the 174 miles to Austin, but I assure you my schedule was that tight). Tonya insists that I go under the dryer, to which I protest in vain and find myself suppressing waves of panic as the time remaining draws nearer to record times for driving to Intergalactic.

The dryer stops. Wallet emptied of fee. Tie catches the breeze as I run to my car. The door stiffly shuts after its grating chime. Two minutes later I've changed at home and back inside my auto looking at traffic maps on my non-iPhone. I-59 changes to I-45. 7:20p and painfully slow ribbons of steel sow fears of missing my flight. Mierda. Change of plans. 610 to I-59. 7:35p. I feel some hope returning as I've never managed to get to the airport this quickly during the weekend rush. I see in my minds eye which garage I'll park and where and map in my head quickly the shortest root to Gate C34 all while approaching the Houston Intercontinental Airport sign.

There's a limo that refuses my passing, but its okay 7:39 and I've got a plan. Damn. Cones. CONES & "Closed for construction." Panic. I whisk around the airport again for more parking and realize the immensity that is IAH and come to quiet resolution that I'll never make it on time. "When the next flight?" I follow inane signs directing me elsewhere to another terminal that seems about a half mile past Hades. I see the purple garage that I want to park but am frustrated by a tiny plastic ropes in my way.

"F***-it. I'm parking here and running."

Weekender bag in hand I reexamine myself for metal and make the appropriate changes. Terminal C in all of its 80s modernity greets me with its obnoxious angles and fluorescent lights. "Is this the Elite Access line?"

I don't have Elite Access but do have an amazing deficit of time 7:45p. Maybe there's a chance. Airlines suck now right?

"Wow. You're pretty." The young Negresse's co-worker who's zaftig curves betrayed her starched polyester and shiny name-tag, elbows her immediately in disbelief.

"What? He is."

I'm nonplussed. I'm clouded by the abruptness of her comment, the need to get through security, and my a terrible sense of urgency.

"Uhhhh....thanks." I manage to squeek out a tepid and equally worried smile. I fly over that forbidden blue carpet release my sandals from my feet and hurry through all manner of x-rays and metal detection in record time. Off to C34.

I see a queue of people. Damnit. They're already boarding the next flight. Whoa, wait. "Sorry for the delay folks. Let's begin boarding our first class passengers at this time."

7:50p

Thank goodness for 15 minute delays.

30 minutes of flying. I arrive at the tiny Austin Airport with my hand-baggage and am delighted to find the Barton Creek Resort van that L'Evêques arranged. I tolerate the rosy-cheeked driver's banter about Scotland, and his papers in college, and relax at the site of the beautiful hotel. Though there are no brown-people in site, I am comforted by merely being awak from Houston at the very least. Drop the bag at the room, change into my swimming drunks as I am reminded of Phelps and Dubai, and feel a bit naked as I navigate the lobby toward the pool.

BLISS.

The pool glows under the stars, live oaks and palm trees, and I'm wrapped in a soothing Texas zephyr.

"Hey! Cecil's here!"

My weekend begins.