Vacation begins precisely 4 PM as Lola and I settle into our 12th floor room at the Omni in downtown Austin, Texas. All the stuff during the earlier part of the day, driving to the airport as the radio plays "Stand by your Man", pulling your damn belt off so the damn metal detector stops screaming then killing time with solitaire in the air, all that stuff is travel. Vacation begins the moment we start making the decisions about what to do next.
Casino el Camino is a dark bar on Sixth Street with black walls and Mayan decorations like the back patio mural of a priest, a corpse and a heart. Sixth Street is about night life and there is still daylight through the front wall windows just below the ceiling. Lola plays the jukebox and I punch in "Invitation to the Blues" by Tom Waits which causes one of the twelve people in the place to grumble about unlistenable music. The bartender pours himself four shots as the front windows slowly become darker and recommends we see the bats. The bats love the Austin nights.
A few blocks back towards Congress Avenue the Rasta boys and beggars are intermingling with normal folks just waiting for the bus stop. Through the bright windows of Buffalo Billiards I notice the Wisconsin - Michigan State game on a monster screen and the Badgers are getting trounced. Lola chit-chats the locals and I concede defeat to a father and son dressed in green and cheering for State. It's an early evening after work crowd, standing in small groups around gaming tables, drinking beers, smacking balls, sliding pucks and paying with plastic. About this time I start looking around for any gold coins on the ground.
Lola insists that we have drinks at the Driskill Hotel which is all opulence and indulgence with bronze statues and light fixtures fashioned like handguns. Champagne and Brandy as the piano player plays to the room. Our young server says he wants a career in "health promotion" and I promptly question how bartending looks on a resume for that field. The discussion drifts into an analysis of prohibition and I caution him never to discount government overreaction to a legitimate problem. After all, this is the very place where Landslide Lyndon waited for the mystery votes that doomed poor Coke Stevenson.
It's a cool night, the kind that's good for walking and the Capital of Texas is literally up the block. Lola and I amble towards the dome until we hear singing. In a small room, an old black lady is playing keyboards while she sings in distinctive voice. "Austin's Own Legend" according to the table card. The audience is a guy wearing really bad drag, one K. D. Lange body double with entourage, assorted troubled youth and an 80 year old birthday girl. The Thompson machine gun on display means this is two bars in a row with firearms as decoration. On the way out after she finished, we tell Margaret Wright her singing stopped us and drew us in, which is true.
Casino el Camino is a dark bar on Sixth Street with black walls and Mayan decorations like the back patio mural of a priest, a corpse and a heart. Sixth Street is about night life and there is still daylight through the front wall windows just below the ceiling. Lola plays the jukebox and I punch in "Invitation to the Blues" by Tom Waits which causes one of the twelve people in the place to grumble about unlistenable music. The bartender pours himself four shots as the front windows slowly become darker and recommends we see the bats. The bats love the Austin nights.
A few blocks back towards Congress Avenue the Rasta boys and beggars are intermingling with normal folks just waiting for the bus stop. Through the bright windows of Buffalo Billiards I notice the Wisconsin - Michigan State game on a monster screen and the Badgers are getting trounced. Lola chit-chats the locals and I concede defeat to a father and son dressed in green and cheering for State. It's an early evening after work crowd, standing in small groups around gaming tables, drinking beers, smacking balls, sliding pucks and paying with plastic. About this time I start looking around for any gold coins on the ground.
Lola insists that we have drinks at the Driskill Hotel which is all opulence and indulgence with bronze statues and light fixtures fashioned like handguns. Champagne and Brandy as the piano player plays to the room. Our young server says he wants a career in "health promotion" and I promptly question how bartending looks on a resume for that field. The discussion drifts into an analysis of prohibition and I caution him never to discount government overreaction to a legitimate problem. After all, this is the very place where Landslide Lyndon waited for the mystery votes that doomed poor Coke Stevenson.
It's a cool night, the kind that's good for walking and the Capital of Texas is literally up the block. Lola and I amble towards the dome until we hear singing. In a small room, an old black lady is playing keyboards while she sings in distinctive voice. "Austin's Own Legend" according to the table card. The audience is a guy wearing really bad drag, one K. D. Lange body double with entourage, assorted troubled youth and an 80 year old birthday girl. The Thompson machine gun on display means this is two bars in a row with firearms as decoration. On the way out after she finished, we tell Margaret Wright her singing stopped us and drew us in, which is true.
