No. 177 - Under an Awning in Austin
I normally stay near the University of Texas campus when I’m in Austin, but with the students back in school, I opted to find a place off campus to avoid … well … to avoid the students. Don’t get me wrong – I love students, higher education, and especially college campuses – but I can’t operate on a few hours of sleep.
On my second to last trip to Austin I stayed on West campus, where, to no one’s surprise, I was kept awake half the night on account of drunken longhorns.
This last time around, I found a mid-century motel off South Lamar – far from the fraternizing. Like most of the older places, the kitchenette and bathroom sink had been redone, but everything else was period specific – from a chest-high showerhead to a rickety air conditioner.
I never stay in hotels when I travel (with the exception of New York). Hell, I recently camped in a tent rather than sleep in a hotel. I find hotel rooms depressing – too much beige. Maybe it’s the artist in me, but I need a place with a patina: the older the better. Plus, in towns like Austin, the older places are in cooler parts of the city.
I found a place with an orange door on the second floor, a worn-out courtyard with some beat-up lawn furniture, and a Japanese motorcycle chained to the stairwell.
The parking lot was a hodgepodge of older cars; some hadn’t moved in months, if not years. The building next to mine had a tiny swimming pool instead of a courtyard, where an old-timer with a mop of gray hair spent his days on a blow-up mattress.
After a long day of meetings and Ubers, I needed to stretch my legs and get a bag of chew, so I walked to South Lamar. I passed a single-engine firehouse where, through a window, you could see a couple of guys in navy t-shirts cooking supper. Their fire truck was parked out front with the doors open.
As I got to Lamar, I walked under the awning of an old gas station that was now a repair shop for junkers. Since it was around sunset and the business was closed, I took a seat on a metal chair in front of a big pane of glass that hadn’t seen a squeegee in decades.
The building was old – old enough that the bay door was locked with a chain. I’m sure any criminal could have busted it apart, but judging by the condition of cinderblock walls and rusted metal trim, there were no takers.
As I sat in the chair, a few folks moseyed by, so – as I always do – I enjoyed some people-watching.
A couple of old black men walked by slowly, smoking a joint. They weren’t in a hurry – just enjoying an evening smoke and conversation.
Then a couple of poor-looking cowboys came by in beat-up blue jeans, wrinkled cowboy hats, and tank tops. They didn’t look like they had but a couple of bucks between them. Each carried a bottle of beer and smoked cigarettes. Their arms were wiry and pale, but their forearms were tanner than a cowhide.
A drifter shuffled by in the opposite direction – melodic, unbathed, dejected. But he carried a sense of freedom with him. I wasn’t envious, but I suppose I was in a curious way. This old man was living in his own time zone – I would’ve paid a day’s wage to hear his thoughts.
In the mix were young women in carefully curated jogging outfits – not a hair out of place. My guess is their ensembles cost more than the drifter made last month with his tin can.
I just sat there in blue jeans and a white undershirt, watching the sun set under the awning of an old filling station, at peace with my place in the world.
*Composed, Edited, and Published in Atlanta, GA
