Deep in the Heart of Texas...!

I was sitting in a bar a couple years ago with friends, trying to explain what I loved so much about Austin. It’s a fun town with great food and lots to do, sure, but there’s always been something more for me. My friend Caroline slid into the booth with a glass of wine and laughed, “Of course you love Austin. It’s basically you!” How so? I wanted to know from my straight-out-of-Dallas sorority sister, who referred to my little utopia (as many Texans do), like some sort of circus sideshow. “It’s all hippie-dippy tie dye,” she said, “With a side of boots and beer and bad country music, afflicted by a serious fitness obsession.”

She was wrong about the music, of course (it’s terrific) and I assumed the rest was meant affectionately. I didn’t know whether to be flattered or offended at the time, but I’ve been described as worse, and I do love that town. I was ecstatic to be spending the weekend there for Austin City Limits. ACL is no Bonnaroo (and the lineup this year was pretty awful), but I adore the festival partly for its much-more chill vibe- and largely because it’s an excuse to spend a few days stuffing myself at Chuy’s and drinking Shiner on a blanket in Zilker Park.

April and Rebecca and I all felt overdue for some R&R, and as Rebecca pronounced Sunday, “ACL delivered.” We slept in and ran along town lake and walked blistering miles in our flip flops and took a hilarious turn on the water bikes (requiring us to nearly capsize in our efforts to clear the ubiquitous cabomba plants from our rudders). We completely negated all of our exercise with beer and Threadills’ world-famous Southern-fried brunch and midnight pizza at Home Slice and a pilgrimage to the cupcake truck. And we spent sunny afternoons hanging out in the grass with the Austin skyline peeking over the stages, listening to good music and mediocre music (and one gospel band that was truly horrific) and enjoying world class people-watching. None of us wanted to leave.

 

But all good things must come to an end, and I’m back in DC on  a rainy Monday, angry because all of our running trails and parks are still cbarricaded unnecessarily thanks to the government shutdown. The weekend appropriation at least means that we are no longer trapped on post because only one gate is open, and we’ll be able to avoid the 12 hour workdays we were contemplating to make up for the absence of our civilian employees. Still- it’s a little jarring to return to the land of political bickering and retaliatory parking lot closures after not having heard the word “shutdown” the entire weekend. I'm chalking it up as yet another reason to move to Texas…

Seth is gone all week on an epic elk hunting adventure with his Dad in Washington state. As of this writing, there had been no new sets of antlers for the man cave, but I’m expecting the news any day now. I miss him, but he’s having the time of his life. Somehow, in the frantic short week before we both raced to the airport before dawn Friday, we managed to enjoy a lovely afternoon on the water in historic Fells Point and to check out our new local taco joint. (Restaurant openings in sleepy Glen Echo/ Cabin John are few and far between, and we’re pretty stoked about this one.) Seth also squeezed in a pheasant hunt, because who doesn’t need a pre-hunt hunt?

The photo of the week is our water biking collage. Check out Rebecca’s  epicphoto bomb on the right.