Texas is big. Bustling. Developing. Friendly.
Jody hollars “Rolltide!” at a stranger and introduces herself by her full name. He greets her back like they were chatting over BBQ in a neighbor’s backyard. She oozes enthusiasm and love for her state. All Texans seem to. Jody and her new best friend talk about football in great detail. They know all the players, plays, scores. She recalls the last time a punter ran the ball on a 4th down and he recounts the year their team beat Michigan State. I listen naively to this foreign language.
Texas bleeds football. Emblems splash across people’s t-shirts, hats, sweatpants, faces. They are proud. Texas proud.
Texas has no income tax.
Texan medical schools have a separate non-AMCAS application.
Texas has a highway named after President George W. Bush. It is called President George W. Bush Highway. Not former President. President.
The expressways flow and ooze into varying neighborhoods, transitioning from 45 to 35 to 75 and suddenly we’re in the middle of the city, glass buildings cascading over my head and glowing coloured lines into the blackened skyline at night. Texan culture surprises me. Conservative and loud. More confident and less pretentious than its yankee counterparts. I stand impressed.
Tapping my faux leather boots to this song: Beaumont
[Cactus photocredit: Amanda Arand]