Alpine, Texas
Sometimes I’m racist. And then sometimes I meet old white men in the middle-of-nowhere Texas who give me hope for humanity.
It’s hot and mid-week (per usual) in a small town in West Texas.
I’ve just finished my first camping stint in Big Bend National Park, and I need a break. A break from worrying about if an animal is going to break into my food locker. And some AC. God, I miss air conditioning.
I book a private room (a casita) with an elderly couple in one of the small towns outside of the park.
At first, I’m nervous.
I’m not sure if it’s instinct or conditioning, but it feels unsettling to be black in a small Texan town with only white people. I’m close to the Mexican border, but few make it across. This area is notorious for catching border runners.
But I quiet my nerves and remember
Worst case, I drive away. I’ll take the risk for AC and a hot shower.
For the next three days, I rest and explore the next town over - the famous Marfa, TX.
I don’t understand the hype, to be honest. It’s cute, but it’s tiny. And did I mention it’s in the middle of nowhere? Whatever you’re planning to do in Marfa, it’s not worth the time wasted getting there. You can walk from one side to the other in thirty minutes, but why would you do that? It’s a ghost town. Restaurants and shops aren’t open according to the times on google maps. The streets are quiet. And it’s overpriced.
In Marfa’s defense, I went mid-week so mayyyybe it’s marginally better on a weekend.
But if you’re not convinced, go for yourself. I have a friend who loved it and stayed for a week. And they had a friend who loved it too, and they stayed for two weeks. Clearly some people (and the overdressed travel blogger I saw) find something about Marfa that draws them in. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.
Me? I’m finding things to do to pass the time until I continue my road trip.
Which ends up being a lot of time at the Airbnb. There’s a hot tub and a trampoline and a dog that loves to play fetch – much better than what Marfa has to offer.
And I spend time chatting with my hosts.
Like the wife who’s preparing for a 5 day trek in Big Bend to “figure some things out”. Or the 90 year old husband who loves to read and spend time with his dog.
I used to think that I’d die at 60 until I met this couple.
This woman is at least 70 years old, and she can out hike me. And the man looks old, but I never would’ve guessed he’s 90 from the way he’s acting – still mentally sharp and agile enough.
My most memorable conversation is with the husband. It’s another one of those deep conversations with strangers that I always find myself in. We’re talking about how America has changed in his lifetime and then… he starts to cry.
Crying softly as he apologizes for all the racist things he did (specifically the songs he sang) when he was younger.
I’ve never met a man at the end of his life who felt so much remorse for his actions decades ago. Actions that were a result of the environment he grew up in. As I’m sitting quietly, watching this old man cry, I feel a hope for humanity that I’ve never felt before.
I’ve always had little faith in the world (especially after Trump’s election)
But this moment changed my perspective.
I keep hearing that America will get better when the old white men die out. But, if this old Texan feels remorse, how many others are there?
As I’m packing up to drive to New Mexico, the wife checks in to see what my plans are for the rest of my travels. Am I blogging? Am I sharing my experiences?
I tell her: No, it’s not for me. Maybe one day.
Then she shows me a poem hanging up in the casita. One of the previous guests, who had never written anything before, wrote a poem. A poem that moved the hosts so much that they framed it and added it to the décor.
Now it’s a year later, and I’m blogging. I’m sharing my experiences, and I love it. If only she could see me now.