The Brothers’ Bike Ride

The Blanco Best Western is an unusual property. Its reviews on TripAdvisor are remarkably positive — a 4.9 rating and comments like “best Best Western ever!” and “Greatest hotel!” — so I was excited to stay there. It certainly had the most expensive and ornate loveseats of any Best Western I’ve known.

The loveseat: a solid piece of furniture

And it had a robust collection of Southwestern art in the elevator, halls, and rooms. Some of the paintings in the first-floor hallway had rotating colored LEDs shining on them, adding a gratuitous but appreciated oomph (sadly not captured on camera).

Herding in a thunderstorm

Intimate moonlit cowboy chat

And there were two TVs in my room, one facing the bed and another in the office area. And it had a nice garden outside.

It wasn’t the best Best Western ever, though, because breakfast was horrible: half-frozen tater tots, instant scrambled eggs (which weren’t replenished when they ran out, maybe to the benefit of future guests), and even worse, instant coffee. How is instant coffee still a thing? Isn’t making coffee one of the simplest tasks man can attempt? The internet likes to tell you you’re doing everything wrong, but as far as I can tell it hasn’t tried to tell you that you’re making coffee wrong, because you aren’t. You’re just making coffee and it’s coming out fine. You are, however, drinking it wrong. See below. This video is an annoying Buzzfeed production but it actually has some good tips. I recognize that posting it makes me complicit in the propagation of our detestable internet culture and I am sorry:

Here, watch this to cleanse your palate. You’ll never look at a Twinkie the same way again:

In conclusion, if you’re a hotel owner, don’t scrimp on coffee. I know it’s cheaper, but your savings are not worth the bad taste in everyone’s mouths.

A storm struck right as the guys were prepping to take off, so they hung out in the lobby for half an hour and waited for it to pass.

Not really in the mood to pose

Their ride was wind assisted and therefore speedy. My drive was short and entirely forgettable; it’s two days later and I have already forgotten it. The bikers actually beat me to the La Quinta in Kyle by a few minutes, all of us arriving a little after noon.

Mark and Tim didn’t invite Brian to the hot tub because they knew he would just be bugging them to hurry up to leave for the LBJ Library. After the secret hot tub session everyone convened in my room and we decided on pizza for lunch. I thought we were going to try a local place, but the guys had passed a CiCi’s, a buffet-style franchise with which you might be familiar, on the way in, so that’s where we ended up.

It looked like this this photo from the Cici’s website, but less appealing

Notes from CiCi’s, Kyle, TX, 10/13/14:

• The all-you-can-eat buffet is $5.60.
• The pizza tastes like high-quality cafeteria food. If you were in high school and they served this on pizza day, you would look forward to it all week.
• The place felt a little unclean, but not enough to make me not want to eat.
• They had on a Sirius ’80s station and it was playing good stuff.
• There was an opinionated teenage girl sitting behind us. Here is a sample of her conversation, typed on my phone in real time: “The music I listen to? They don’t want it played on the radio because the bands don’t want white trash to listen to their music. They don’t want people like Valerie to go to their concerts. It’s not racist. It’s not racist.” Then she listed the inferior music that does get played on the radio with a sneer and a laugh: “Nicki Minaj, heh!” She also shared her thoughts on abortion: “If you want to take care of it for eighteen years when it comes out of her, be my guest.” And I learned that she once thought she was pregnant because her period app mispredicted her start date by two days. Oh, apps! It seemed like she was the only person talking in a group of three. On my way back from the restroom I satisfied my curiosity about the rest of the group: one of them was clearly her mother, and the other I supposed was her boyfriend, who was getting through it by staring blankly to his left. Poor everyone.

Next up: the LBJ Library and Museum!

The brutalist building seems to suit LBJ’s personality — which is not to say he was brutal, just forceful

Its feature exhibit was on sixty influential people from the 1960s. I thought the museum did a nice job profiling people you (or at least I) might not already know much about, like David Ogilvy and Berry Gordy, along with more well-known names like Charles Schulz and Kurt Vonnegut.

One neat interactive feature was a free jukebox with a selection of influential recordings, again with a nice mix of popular and lesser known.

(from the LBJ Library website)

I waited till it was free and walked up to take a look at the songs, planning to choose a crowd-pleaser for the guys. I noted they had an obscure Led Zeppelin track on there, which pleased me. But before I had a chance to pick my song, a guy, 40ish, came over and stood next to me. He asked how to do it and I explained it to him: “I think you pick a letter and then you pick a number.” You know, like on every jukebox you’ve ever seen. I should have said, “Um, I was about to pick something,” but when I feel uncomfortable I usually try to make the situation end in as quick and conflict-free a way as possible. I’m working on this.

He pushed a letter and hesitated. “Okay, now you pick a number.” He put on Coltrane’s “A Love Supreme” — a fine choice, but I wasn’t about to say so after he usurped my turn — and kept standing there, so I walked away. I have no idea if it was an idiotic attempt to hit on someone in a museum or if he was just clueless. Maybe standard jukebox etiquette doesn’t apply in a presidential library.

Doofus aside, I enjoyed the museum a lot. I particularly liked listening to LBJ’s phone conversations and could probably have spent a few hours doing that. I listened to one he had with Jackie Kennedy just a couple of weeks after JFK’s death in which he tells her that she should visit whenever she wants, and she must still be in shock because she’s breathless and coquettish and giggly the entire conversation. It was fascinating.

I also learned that he founded the Corporation for Public Broadcasting.

LBJ’s “I will not seek another term” speech — I enjoy thinking about what the tech on the floor is thinking

Teleprompter page from the speech

Replica of Lady Bird Johnson’s office. She would sort her files by making piles on the floor. I do this, too.

After the museum, we ate a quick but delightful meal at the nearby Salty Sow, then drove back to Kyle in rush hour traffic. I used the Waze app (which I downloaded after Laura recommended it on her blog — thanks!) and while it couldn’t do much for us that day, it is a cool tool.

The Salty Sow, a top-notch dining establishment

Back at the room, I performed blog assistant duties and half-watched “Dancing With the Stars.” Carlton is pretty good, huh?

Hotel Art of the Day

Cows on a mission
Color photograph, ~14″x10″
Best Western, Blanco, TX

Sorry about the poor quality, it was tough to get a good, non-glarey shot of this.

Hotel Art Score

7/10. This is like if Michael Bay were a cow and made a movie about other cows. It made me smile every time I saw it.

Art Art Score

3/10. Same goes for Armageddon while we’re at it.

When you stay at hotels, do you use the little shampoos and soaps they give you? My new policy is to use hotel soaps only if they seem especially good. The hands-down best hotel beauty products I’ve encountered were at Le Château Frontenac in Quebec City. They use Rose 31, a scent by Le Labo, and I became so enamored that I’ve started ordering Rose 31 laundry detergent so that my clothes can smell like it. An indulgence, yes, but I’ve come to believe in the positive influence of good scents on my sense of the worldence.

Anyway, some Best Western on L2 gave us such a huge bar of soap that I couldn’t bring myself to leave it behind. So I’ve been toting it around in a baggie and watching it shrink slowly with use, inordinately proud that I am not wasting plastic and soap. I’m sure most frequent travelers bring their own soap because it’s simple and logical, but to me it is a brilliant new idea I came up with, so I wanted to brag about it. Think about all the soap that’s thrown away in a given day in the world’s hotels. Now think about how you can change it.

I woke up just before 6 and worked for a spell, joining the guys in the breakfast room at 7:30. Sharon made an excellent meal of scrambled eggs, bacon, a fruit salad, a maple cake, and probably other stuff I’m forgetting. I should have taken a picture of the spread; it was one of the best breakfasts we’ve had on all of the trips combined. (And breakfasts this time around have been particularly lousy.)

Warm breakfast room at the Diamond H B&B

Ms. Pac-Man/Galaga machine in the Diamond H garage. If it had been plugged in I would have kicked everyone’s ass at Galaga, especially because they’ve probably never played it before.

I did not envy them this morning (not that I ever do, really)

Symbols and portents will start appearing everywhere if you’re looking for them. The guys started off a little after 8, riding into a misty, chilly morning. Right after they left, as I was walking up the staircase back to my room (see above photo for stairs), I heard a loud sound and turned around to see a cat falling violently out of a tree (see above photo for tree). Its body was all twisted up as it fell, but it landed on its feet and trotted around the building. Jim was outside at the time and I yelled over to him, “Your cat just fell out of that tree, but I think he’s okay.” I’m not sure if he heard me right because he didn’t say anything, just looked at me, and I continued back up the stairs.

I wondered if it meant anything, because it seemed like it should. The obvious: One of the riders will fall but will be okay, or the less obvious, more celestial: Earthly disturbances may occur yet the universe will remain whole. But something told me this didn’t mean anything; it was just a cat falling out of a tree. That a witnessed act of nature might be only itself seems symbolic, too, though, doesn’t it? I can’t escape!

Looking out at the road from the Diamond H. #NOFILTERYOUGUYS

At 11 I packed up and got ready to head out, thanking Jim for his hospitality and telling him I’d send more New Yorkers his way. “Okay,” he said, sounding not at all enthusiastic about the prospect.

He had told me earlier that morning to stop at Camp Verde on my drive out. “There’s a nice little store there that you have to visit,” he said. “It’s got a lot of Texas souvenirs and it’s real nice. Quality Control” — meaning his wife Sharon — “loves it.”

From Wikipedia:

The camp was the headquarters for U.S. Camel Corps, which experimented with using dromedaries as pack animals in the southwestern United States. The Army imported camels in 1856 and 1857, using them with some success in extended surveys in the Southwest. The camels did not get along with the Army’s horses and mules, which would bolt out of fear when they smelled a camel. The soldiers found the camels difficult to handle and they detested the smell of the animals.

Camp Verde bore no sign of its previous association with the U.S. Camel Corps other than an attractive sculpture, but the restaurant and store were quite nice in a Pottery Barn kind of way and suggested affluence in the areas nearby.

Remember the camels

Mugs with Texas ‘tude. I took the time to make the labels face forward so I feel obligated to myself to include this. The last one reads “LIFE needs more COFFEE & LESS WORKEE”

There was a cool totem pole on the grounds, tucked away near the entrance to the rest room. I am not much of a taker of selfies but thought it could be fun to have a picture of my face next to a dramatic totem pole face. I looked both ways and saw no one coming, so I got my phone out and fixed my hair and started framing the shot so as to flatter both myself and the pole. But it always takes me a while to find a becoming angle, being unpracticed at selfies and being afflicted with the Sullivan nose-to-jaw ratio, and soon enough a maintenance worker appeared on the path, heading my way. I instantly felt like a vain fool and shut down the operation. As I headed back to my car a guy on a bench was smiling at me. He’d seen the whole damn thing.

The Waring General Store was made for road trip photos, and it knows it

The ride to Blanco was fun at first. I listened and sang along to Fleetwood Mac’s Tusk, a reliable record for a scenic drive, expecting to see the guys with each crest of a hill. But I kept not seeing them. I stopped on the side of the road a couple of times and tried to locate them on GPS, but if I had a signal, Dad didn’t, and vice versa. The album ended and I drove in silence, what-ifs bouncing around in my brain. Once the worry bug gets into your system it’s hard to shake. All of you family members reading this don’t need to worry because I am worrying on your behalf and then some.

I made it to the hotel, hoping they were already there and had just neglected to text. There was no sign of them. But we all finally had cell reception — whew — and I could see they were about 25 miles away. I checked in quickly at the Best Western, then headed back out, figuring they’d appreciate another break. It turns out I hadn’t passed them before because they’d been taking smaller roads to avoid traffic.

Map man Tim plotting the rest of the day’s course

Pit stop done, I picked up some snacks at the grocery store then headed back to the Best Western, where colored lights illuminated artwork in the hallways. More on that in the next post.

The guys arrived and did laundry, and we had a good time relaxing in my room while they waited for it to finish. Someone had left half a case of Coors Light in my fridge and Mark availed himself of one. He later asked if I’d taken them with us, and I told him I hadn’t because it would be bad kharma.

Tim read Brian to sleep with the latest installation of Crossing the Borderlands

We headed into town for dinner. Blanco is even smaller than Bandera, and we wondered how any business could sustain itself. The restaurant I’d picked out had closed at 3, so we ended up the Oak Creek Cafe, a little tavern that gives out free pinto beans. The food was so-so — I find it mildly appalling that a restaurant would serve Ore-Ida fries — but their house red was surprisingly good.

Afterward we did a loop around the small town square. It was a pleasant night.

Dad wanted to be in this picture, and he is.

Hotel Art of the Day

Gulls hovering above a dune
~16″x8″
Diamond H B&B, Bandera, TX

Hotel Art Score

8/10. I was charmed to find this very Jersey shore painting in Texas. I’d normally barely notice something like this because I’ve seen dozens like it in beach houses in my lifetime, though usually in a pink or white frame, with a lighter matte. At first glance it looks like a typical beach painting, but is it? It’s more about the gulls than about the ocean; they seem to be circling for food. It’s slightly ominous, and I like that. Maybe this is standard beach subject matter and it just feels original because I’m viewing it in an unexpected setting. I genuinely don’t know right now.

Art Art Score

5/10. It’s a nice painting done by someone with talent. It doesn’t particularly move me, but it’s not maudlin or insincere.

Outtake of the Day

I shot this video. Why did I shoot it in portrait view? How embarrassing. Never again.

I forgot to tell you about my podcast concept. The show would be called “Beth’s Bar and Grill.” For each episode, someone would come over to my apartment and I’d make dinner for them, or we’d just have some drinks, and they’d talk about their lives and their problems. I’d ask my guests probing, sometimes daringly personal questions. The cast would rotate, so listeners could check in on developments in each person’s life periodically and be able to start seeing patterns in the types of turmoil people are experiencing in our modern era. It would essentially be like listening to therapy sessions, but with some joking around and slight inebriation. If you live in or around the New York City area and would like to appear on “Beth’s Bar and Grill,” please send an email to barandgrillpodcast@gmail.com.

Day 3, Saturday, started off gloomily. I woke up at 4:30. Breakfast was a soggy hard-boiled egg and a wheat English muffin. I will make different choices at our next Holiday Inn Express because I deserve better.

Ginger and the boys

The guys began their arduous journey at 8. I left the room at 11:30 and stopped at Walmart for fruit and sundries. The bluetooth FM transmitter I’d been using to listen to music in the car stopped bluetoothing, so I had to find a replacement, because radio options around here are dire. Walmart couldn’t hook me up, but there was a RadioShack in the same shopping center that could.

The Uvalde RadioShack was undergoing some major product rearranging, an odd undertaking for a busy Saturday; the floor was a Slip ‘N Slide made of little boxes of electronics. I slipped but fortunately did not slide. And I found a new transmitter. It kind of sucks but it gets the job done, mostly.

It was a lovely drive, the first really green drive of the tour, with winding hills and unusual wildlife — antelopes! — and cloudy, gothic weather. And as usual on these trips, when the road is empty and the scenery is beautiful and I become aware of my solitude, I feel an overwhelming love of life.

Trees of life

I met up with the guys around 1, a little more than halfway through their day. They were having a tough ride but spirits were high.

Two mean brothers teasing poor Tim at the pit stop

About half an hour later, Ginger and I made a wrong turn and headed into the town of Bandera rather than toward our B&B. It felt like a real old-fashioned frontier town, with a short strip of shops, restaurants, a church, and a courthouse. My impression was certainly helped by this, which stopped traffic as it made its way down Main Street:

Vote Charlotte Browning for City Council

I arrived at the Diamond H B&B a little after 2 o’clock. The place looked welcoming but deserted; Ginger was the only car in the lot. I found the door to the office open and walked in. It looked like someone had been there moments before; the desk had a few sets of keys on it, and there was an open pack of cookies on the coffee table. The office led to what was clearly a living space, a sofa and dining table visible through the doorway. Something told me not to call out — probably my dim memory of reading that check-in was a firm 3 p.m. I decided to undo my cavalier entrance, head back outside, and alert them to my presence by doorbell.

I doorbelled. Then I knocked. No one answered. I went inside again. Still no one there. I went outside and walked around to the front entrance — aha, I just need to ring the front doorbell! But there was no doorbell at the front. So I knocked. I peered in the windows. Nothing.

One summer day when I was five years old, I asked my mom if I could visit my friend John, who lived a couple blocks away at the bottom of our street. I didn’t usually go places by myself at that age, but my mom let me walk to kindergarten and to visit friends in the neighborhood, which in hindsight was really cool of her. When I got to John’s house I knocked on the screen door, but no one answered. Having committed to the idea of visiting John and not knowing the protocol for pretty much anything at that age, I let myself in and walked through the rooms downstairs. But John wasn’t there; no one was. I started getting the sense that I shouldn’t be in the house, that something was wrong there. But instead of leaving, I started climbing the stairs to the second floor to investigate, growing more trepidatious with each step. About midway up I heard a radio on in one of the rooms, and that was it. I freaked out — I have a snapshot in my memory of the moment when fear overtook me, the way the sun was hitting the stair railing, the bedroom door to my right slightly ajar — and ran as fast as I could out of John’s house and back up to mine. I never told him about it.

I went in the back entrance of the office one more time, hoping mildly that there had been a gruesome murder and I was about to discover it and it would be like Columbo. I realized that if there had been a murder I was probably in danger — the murderer would still be at large, as they say — and noted it was odd that I didn’t feel like I was in danger. And then of course I self-corrected and thought that I didn’t really want anyone to have been murdered, I just wanted intrigue. You know, for the blog.

When I peered through the office doorway I heard TV sounds and saw an older man on the sofa watching it. He did not see me.

I decided to leave and come back in an hour. Peeing would have to wait.

I filled up Ginger’s tank and took my time picking up a couple six-packs. When I got back to the Diamond H, it was after 3, which to me meant it was safe to call out. After a couple “hellos” a nice lady — Sharon — came out in stocking feet and got me settled in. The bikers arrived not long after.

Our trusty reader Tim returns, with his inimitable pronunciation of places and names

Jim, the guy I’d spied watching TV, was friendly and amusing, a natural storyteller. I asked him for a restaurant recommendation and he said we should go to O.S.T., “a steak and potatoes place,” but warned me that it wasn’t like a New York City restaurant. It sure wasn’t, but that’s what we’re here for.

Hotel Art of the Day

Abstract shapes
16″ x 16″
Holiday Inn Express, Uvalde, Texas

Hotel Art Score

9/10. This was in the bathroom and I always liked seeing it when I entered. You can’t tell from this photo, but the brushstrokes are visible, which adds energy to it. It’s playful; the colors are harmonious and it’s got a nice overall vibe. It’s like art lite — a cheery, mass-produced doodle. In fact I might just like it because it looks a lot like the doodles I make during conference calls, except colored in.

Art Art Score

6/10. (It’s on the line between a 5 and a 6 but why not just give it a 6?) I think the artist might have actually cared about this in a nonchalant way, and that counts for a lot.