USA - Houston, Austin and Dallas, Texas.
I feel bad that Texas was not given a fair crack of the whip. After the emotional peaks of Baton Rouge, Louisiana, lingering doubts remained in the minds of Dean and I, as we hit the I-35W towards the Lone Star State. Texas is a large state, full of impressive metropolises and interstates, rolling in oil-based money and proud of its heritage as one of the last bastions of the frontier west, a pioneering land that today acts as one of America’s most significant political and economic republics. Much to be excited about, then, not to mention the fact that Texas is famous for good steaks, excellent music and cowboy hats. Nevertheless, as we left Louisiana behind, Dean and I questioned whether we should have moved on from Baton Rouge at all. It was trying and dare I say even emotional coming to the decision to leave, and then to stick with it, but after sound advice from old friends, the road trip remained. Westwards we travelled. A rendezvous with Dallas would be our ultimate target, but before that we had two other major urban zones in Houston and Austin to look forward to.
Houston:
Due to our indecisiveness in Baton Rouge, we did not set out for Houston until later than we would have originally anticipated. Driving through the night and across the border into Texas, we arrived at our downtown hotel dazed and tired, both in need of a good night’s rest that would, we hoped, set us in more positive spirits for a full day’s sightseeing in America’s fourth-largest city. Houston, perhaps unsurprisingly, is rather big, surrounded by freeway mergers that loop around each other in increasingly tall flyovers in a multitude of directions: more Spaghetti Western than Spaghetti Junction, but certainly confusing to navigate through, particularly with six lanes of traffic in either direction. Our trusted GPS helped us through many a tricky situation, but while satellite navigation did its job with aplomb, the weather sadly let the side down. For the first time on our trip to America we were met with genuinely poor weather. Low clouds descended over the city, a wind came in from the Gulf, and patchy rain drizzled down in a very London-esque manner, as if completely decided to be awful weather, but not totally committed to a torrential downpour. The foggy haze cut off the views of many of Houston’s skyscrapers, and prevented us mooching through the streets as had been our tradition until that point. There is, nevertheless, much to recommend about Houston, Texas. Its space heritage will be discussed later, but it also remains a major cosmopolitan conurbation, bringing together peoples of all races under the American and Texan flags. In particular, Dean and I noticed a definite rise in the Hispanic population when compared to where we had travelled to previously. This was also obvious through the main Houston cuisine, which merged meat-based Texan comfort food with traditional Mexican offerings. No surprise, then, that ‘Tex-Mex’ was created in Houston.
Determined not to let the weather get the better of us, and putting to good use our stiff British upper lips that we have naturally grown up with in London, Dean and I headed towards the Houston Museum of Fine Arts. Here, inside this sprawling building, we found countless exhibits that were genuinely informative. The Native American collection was particularly impressive, telling the story of the original settlers in this vast land, and their creeds and practices of many thousands of years. It is an area of history and society that I sadly no little about, and I was therefore pleased to be able to take the time to learn a little more. After all, the first people in America were the native races that today, in some areas, struggle to find either political acceptance or an alternative way to sustain their age-old ideology within their own communities and the nation at large. It is a sad tale, and one which must not be forgotten, lest America completely divests herself from her heritage, a vital and cogent link with the land that stretches back way beyond Britain’s role in America’s story.
Another dazzling exhibit in the Museum of Fine Arts was in the corridor of lights. This mesmerising rectangular space, with a door at either end, and shafts of laser-beamed lights criss-crossing each other at different angles, created optical illusions that made us hesitant underfoot and curious to explore further. Out came the cameras, unsurprisingly, as we took full advantage of this light show. Facebook profile pictures will no doubt follow. At the other end of the vast museum building, Dean and I were fascinated by scale models of housing developments that had been deliberately smashed to pieces on one side, and left untouched and undiminished on the other. There are, I am sure, numerous socio-political points to be made from the creation of scale-model conurbations, perhaps enforcing upon the viewer the fact that America remains fiercely divided, particularly in terms of governmental housing policy, but as a mere bystander, and indeed a foreigner, it would perhaps be out of place of me to lend too much of a critical eye to our viewing experience. Nonetheless, if you find yourself in Houston, Texas, and you fancy doing something a little different for a few hours, this museum is a must. Well spaced and signposted, it certainly helped while away the time as it rained outside.
“Houston, we have a problem.” There was no need for Dean and I to utter these words during our sojourn in this sprawling city, but it is a phrase known the world ever after immortalisation in the film ‘Apollo 13’ – the cinema account of the true story of NASA’s ill-fated 1970 lunar mission. Houston will always be synonymous with America’s space programme, and while the rockets may blast off from Cape Canaveral, Florida, mission control is most definitely in Texas. With boyish hopes of letting slip the surly bonds of earth, dancing across and above light-splintered clouds and touching, with outstretched hands through the stratospheres and the great beyond, the very face of God, Dean and I went boldly where no Radlett citizen has gone before, to the very heart, the epicentre itself, of America’s heralded space centre. Some criticise NASA for wasting money that could be spent on schools and hospitals and troops, while others simply argue that space travel is an irreverent irrelevance. Yet beyond the political infighting there remains something romantic and magical about exploring beyond the known world. President Kennedy summed it up when he explained that America would choose to go to the Moon “not because it is easy, but because it is hard” and because “the Moon is there, and the planets and the stars are there, and with them new hopes for mankind.” With these inspiring words in mind, the windscreen wipers in the Jeep moving at full speed, and the satellite navigation aimed at NASA HQ, it was one small step for man, and one giant leap for Dean and Sammy.
Which is why I am a little concerned to report that, having spent a good few hours at NASA, I am now reasonably convinced that there is more to the conspiracy theories regarding lunar fakery than meets the eye. Supposedly the main headquarters for NASA, the Space Centre seemed to lack any form of control, security, organisation, and basic management. We were waved into the $10 car-park, told we could leave the Jeep for free, and then somehow worked our way in to the centre itself without having to part with any money for a ticket. This culminated in getting aboard a monorail train that would take us through the many NASA sights, again supposedly for a nominal fee, but, in a neat twist of fate, completely free for Dean and I, ignored as we were by almost everybody in a position of authority. Our tour guides seemed bewildered, tired, haphazard, lacking much information about, for example, the mission control room, apart from to point out which seat the Queen had used when she once visited the centre. Questions on how the space shuttle works (and, to be fair, the exact replica size practice shuttle is an impressive specimen to view) were waved away with mere shrugs, and one supposedly senior NASA scientist appeared to drop his accreditation and security cards on the floor, in the middle of the viewing public, with the sort of carelessness that one would expect from a schoolboy, and not a salaried member of the world’s most pre-eminent space programme.
When it reached six o’clock, a janitor whose face resembled a skull emerged from the shadows and started shouting alarmingly loudly at small children to vacate the area and go home. It appeared to Dean and I that when this place closes for business, they mean it. “Get out!” shouted the man at Dean, who was enjoying playing with an exhibit where you can pretend to power up the lunar module all by yourself. Dean and I responded with a series of pranks and gestures across the main lobby floor of the centre, finding as much slapstick comedy out of the exhibits as possible while the janitor, always a few steps behind, desperately tried to make us, and the many screaming, shouting, crying children, leave the centre so that all the miserable employees could similarly go home and forget that they have to work there. What an odd place it was. Part awe-inspiring, part ridiculous; occasionally fascinating, often bewildering, and most definitely, for Dean and I at any rate, completely free of charge.
Please do not let this put you off visiting Houston, a city with real cultural appeal, big steaks and a cosmopolitan mix of interesting people. It’s just that for some reason the people at NASA had obviously not heard Kennedy’s speech, or familiarised themselves with why space exploration is important and exciting and wonderful, and why Houston is lucky to have the space centre in its environs. Perhaps Sam Seaborn from the television series ‘The West Wing’ sums that up better than I can:
“Because we came out of a cave and we made fire. We put wheels on the ground, ships on the sea, and planes in the sky; we gazed up at the heavens. The history of man is hung on a timeline of exploration. And this is what’s next.”
Austin:
We drove through the night from Houston to Austin, the state capital of Texas, and noticed the weather stat to clear as we made our way west. Arriving late at the motel, a decent sleep was in order before exploring this beautiful town over the course of the next day.
The next morning was bright and sunny, a return to form after the singular aberration of the previous day’s rain and gales. Throughout our trip to the United States, neither of us were particularly homesick. I had been concerned about missing Spurs matches, but thanks to the wonders of Fox Soccer Channel had actually managed to see more of my beloved side than I would have done in London. However, that Sunday morning in Austin made me miss home more than at any point on our trip thusfar. Why? Because Spurs had decided to wait for me to go to America before scoring a sensational nine goals in one game. Yes, I watched it. Yes, I was beyond elated. Nonetheless, when your team wins 9-1 you really do want to be there in person.
Still, if there is a way to put English football to the back of one’s mind it is to travel around a new city, and Austin duly obliged, with its tree-lined roads, impressive civic buildings, well-kept parklands and squares, and imposing state structures, including the state Capitol Building. Texas is, of-course, a large and important state, both politically and economically, and duly has an administrative and governmental building befitting the state’s role within the nation. With a domed roof and columned front, at the end of a long boulevard that itself is lined with statues and sculptures, flowers and well-spaced oak trees, the Capital Building can be seen for some distance around. The dome roof itself is particularly attractive, and inside a painted mural across the ceiling helps cement the fact that Texans are proud of their state and heritage, and are happy to display the state’s history in its central building. Large scale prints and paintings adorn the walls, featuring battle scenes, local politicians and frontiersmen at work: the men and moments that helped sculpt and form the republic of Texas, from Native Americans to the Spanish, the French, the British and then the revolutionaries, the pioneers, the oil men. Politically, we may be far removed from the sensibilities of Texan attitudes (though perhaps not so much in the major city centres), but there is no denying that they are proud of their ideals and culture, and the state’s standing as a key electoral battleground. We may rudely and disproportionately scoff at the politicking of Texas’s most famous son, President George W. Bush, a former Governor of Texas also, but he and his father (not to mention President Lyndon B. Johnson also) illustrate the power this state can have if you achieve high office here first.
Across from the state governmental buildings is the University of Texas campus – beautifully crafted and laid out, with its own mock Roman buildings and centres, glorious palm trees and finely cut grass quadrants, around which book stores and coffee shops lend a sense of organised bohemia to the otherwise Deep South sensibilities of the rest of the citizenry. Feeling at home amongst the scenery and the sunshine, Dean and I relaxed in a roadside café, dipping in and out of the New York Times Sunday supplement, planning the evening ahead, and enjoying a short interlude to our walking tour of the town.
By nightfall we were ready to head downtown. After our Halloween experience in New York, the word ‘downtown’ will forever be associated with our good friend Dylan Viner’s atonal rendition of the song of the same name, and taxi cab drivers across many states will no doubt have been bemused by the jocularity which Dean and I frequently linked to it when we asked them to take us there. In Austin’s case, downtown means the famous 9th Street, and the roads off of it, where live music and food outlets line the boulevards, complete with neon lights and hard-working tradesmen attempting to escort us into their establishment above any other. Although a Sunday evening, there was still a decent vibe and Dean and I enjoyed burgers, drinks and live music in an iconic setting before the fatigue of so many weeks travelling began to catch up with us. Inevitably our attentions turned to the past few fabulous weeks, and how much we had managed to achieve during that time. We still had Dallas to come, of-course, but as Sunday night turned into the early hours of Monday morning in Austin, Texas, we could not help but feel the first pangs of emotion at the prospect of returning to London. Determined to enjoy our final couple of days, we headed back to the hotel, aware of a long drive the next day towards a city famous the world over: Dallas, Texas. Forget who shot JR, a far more important murder mystery occurred here, in November 1963 – a moment and time in history that will live in infamy.
Dallas:
Like Houston, Dallas sprawls for miles around, encroaching into nearby Fort Worth and gobbling up the surrounding countryside with its miles of interstate and flyover systems. In the city centre, skyscrapers abound, but with architectural differences in style and structure that are synonymous with Chicago. These impressive buildings were not only tall; they looked fabulous, with varying angles, materials, and designs sitting close together in the financial district. The lack of uniformity, beyond their obvious height, made walking and driving around Dallas a pleasant experience, particular as the central roads and avenues are wide and pedestrian-friendly, inviting tourists to take a look around as they go about their business.
Dallas is an important city, and is the home to many international organisations, predominantly oil-based and with far-reaching economic capabilities. Like Houston, it is proud of its heritage, and deferent to the tragedy of November 1963 and the assassination of President Kennedy. Dallas is a real southern city, with cowboy hats, knee-high boots, and silver-buckled belts, all around. Politically to the right of centre, it still boasts rich cultural traditions and ethnic mixes, and is clearly an affluent urban zone, complete with large, gas-guzzling cars, giant portions in restaurants, and imposing buildings. Sam, who you will remember from Baton Rouge, told me that “everything is bigger in Texas.” She was right, certainly with regards to Dallas. On our first evening in the city, Dean and I ordered two of the largest steaks you are likely to see, complete with a side-order of potato-skins that would have been enough for five or six people. This was after enjoying our hotel’s complimentary milk and cookies reception.
Earlier we had travelled out of the centre to the largest shopping mall in Dallas, in order to finish off buying gifts for our families and perform a final, futile search for some Major League Soccer jerseys. Amidst American Eagle, Abercrombie, Hollister and Dean’s beloved Urban Outfitters (I believe Dean made at least one Urban purchase in every city we travelled to), we found a bonafide cowboy shop, similar to the beautifully crafted independent store that we popped into in Dexter, Michigan, with Adam Jacobs, some weeks previously. Amidst the belts, the spurs (!), the checked shirts and boots, the gunslingers and holsters, we found a bewilderingly large display of real cowboy hats. Jacking up my own jeans as high as they could go, and placing my thumbs into my pockets, I paced up and down the store in different cowboy hats, perfecting a southern drawl of an accent, and preparing to draw my pistol at the slightest interference. Dallas is the start point of the age-old Wild West, and I was determined to look the part with a cowboy hat of my own. It was a battle between my financial budget and my fashion sense. The town wasn’t big enough for the two of them. I bought the cowboy hat and presented it to my Dad at Heathrow Airport, having insisted on wearing it on the plane. It makes saying “Howdy ya’ll” all the more rewarding.
That night Dean and I found a specialist steak joint and toasted our adventures. We’d come a long way: literally and metaphorically. As the vodka flowed, and we delivered talking heads to the camera about our feelings on what we’d seen and experienced, and the people we had met, it dawned on both of us that returning to London was going to be difficult. In order to stave off the blues we moved to a number of different bars and, true to form, found the locals to be friendly and accommodating, so much so that a waitress in one bar came over and informed us that a businesswoman at the other side of the bar wanted to buy us a drink. Dean chased up her name and number. What came of it? You’ll have to ask Dean.
Dallas has a congenial air about it, friendly and engaging, where the people (true of Texas in general actually) are pleased to talk and listen, and keen to often their opinions on a multitude of subjects. Particularly interesting was to hear political opinion that goes against the grain of British views on US politics, without resorting to the sort of bigotry or ignorance that we in the UK like to pretend characterises much of the south. The reality of course is much different, and Dean and I found intelligent and informed Republicans who offered a diverging view with clarity and insight.
The social transparency of Dallas was maintained the following morning as we made our way to the Texas Book Store Depository, just a few blocks from our hotel, in beautiful Texas sunshine. To the naked eye this rather uniform building may seem irrelevant, but within its confines, in the corner room on the sixth floor, Lee Harvey Oswald loaded a gun and fired numerous shots towards President John F Kennedy’s presidential motorcade as it travelled through the centre of Dallas. Kennedy, and his wife Jacqui, were in the car, with Vice President Johnson, native of Dallas, in the car just behind. Waving to the crowds in his open-top Cadillac, Kennedy exuded optimism and hope in a new America, a shining new era of Camelot. In the ensuing confusion and fear, the anguish and terror, part of America’s soul was taken, lost on that fateful day as a young president in his prime was gunned down by a crazed assassin. Whether conspiracy or the actions of a singular mad man, the impact of this event resonated across the world. Big Ben, in the heart of London town, chimed once every minute of Kennedy’s funeral while the Queen’s guards stood in silent salute. The attention of the planet was on Dallas, Texas.
Forty-six years later, and outside the building on the road that passes it, a simple ‘x’ can be found: the exact spot where the bullets hit. Across the street is a memorial to JFK, a permanent plaque, statue, water feature and walkway leading towards the fated road and the infamous grass knoll alongside. Inside the building a museum and exhibit goes through, in minutiae detail, the events of 22 November 1963 and what it meant to America and the world at large. After coming through a revolutionary battle, a civil war, two world wars, and in the midst of civil rights struggles, the murder of JFK changed the United States of America indelibly. It scarred a nation, knocked its confidence and focussed minds on healing what Kennedy’s brother Robert later called the ‘mindless menace of violence’ that stalked the streets. Decades later this work is not finished, despite the political therapy of President Johnson’s social reform bills, or President Reagan’s inspiring oratory, or President Obama’s historic election.
People refer to the Kennedy administration wistfully, using the phrase ‘for one brief, shining moment’ to illustrate its beauty, its ambition and its tragic temporary status. Is Camelot back in America today? From what Dean and I saw and experienced there is certainly a new sense of civic pride and hope and enthusiasm in a more tolerant and socially inclusive land, despite its still evident polarisation. Kennedy would argue that the work of America is never finished, that the pyramid on a $1 bill is deliberately not completed because the point of this nation, and the real sentiment behind America’s fervent ideals, is that the American dream is continuous. It is not an end goal or a place or a specific: it is a state of mind, and one encapsulated by John F Kennedy and his own era of Camelot. Yet look at what has happened here since Kennedy’s epoch was halted all too early by the bullet rather than the ballot: the end of segregation, man on the moon, economic upturns, the election of Obama.
It may be perplexing that Dean and I found this part of Dallas, Texas, to be a fitting end point for our trip: a place of carnage and chaos, of bloodshed and disaster, yet the beauty of America is how this nation deals with its challenges, as the fictional President Bartlett reminds us: “Every time we feel we have measured our capacity to meet a challenge, we look up and we are reminded that this capacity may well be limitless.” Everywhere we travelled we saw hopefulness and friendliness and great pride, so to be taken to the scene of a great American tragedy having just witnessed America’s present confidence and positivity was an important and rewarding experience, filling both of us with an immense sense of pride, hope, happiness and our own spoken and private ambitions: emotions that made a long journey back to London seem a little less trying, a little less difficult.
From Boston to Dallas, with everything that came in between, Dean and I lived America: from the skyscrapers of New York and Chicago, to the plains of Louisville, Nashville and Memphis; from the stunning campuses and people of Ann Arbor and Baton Rouge, to the dividing lines of Birmingham, the colour and vibrancy of New Orleans, the sprawl and confidence of Houston, colourfulness of Austin, and importance of Dallas.
For a few spectacular weeks, Dean and I were in America. We’ll be back, of course, but for both of us the American dream is no foreign and imagined concept: for one brief shining moment we lapped up this magnificent country, yet we will live the American dream forever.
Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame
With conquering limbs astride from land to land;
Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand
A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame
Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name
Mother of Exiles. From her beacon-hand
Glows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes command
The air-bridged harbour that twin cities frame,
"Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!" cries she
With silent lips. "Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore,
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tossed to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!"
Houston:
Due to our indecisiveness in Baton Rouge, we did not set out for Houston until later than we would have originally anticipated. Driving through the night and across the border into Texas, we arrived at our downtown hotel dazed and tired, both in need of a good night’s rest that would, we hoped, set us in more positive spirits for a full day’s sightseeing in America’s fourth-largest city. Houston, perhaps unsurprisingly, is rather big, surrounded by freeway mergers that loop around each other in increasingly tall flyovers in a multitude of directions: more Spaghetti Western than Spaghetti Junction, but certainly confusing to navigate through, particularly with six lanes of traffic in either direction. Our trusted GPS helped us through many a tricky situation, but while satellite navigation did its job with aplomb, the weather sadly let the side down. For the first time on our trip to America we were met with genuinely poor weather. Low clouds descended over the city, a wind came in from the Gulf, and patchy rain drizzled down in a very London-esque manner, as if completely decided to be awful weather, but not totally committed to a torrential downpour. The foggy haze cut off the views of many of Houston’s skyscrapers, and prevented us mooching through the streets as had been our tradition until that point. There is, nevertheless, much to recommend about Houston, Texas. Its space heritage will be discussed later, but it also remains a major cosmopolitan conurbation, bringing together peoples of all races under the American and Texan flags. In particular, Dean and I noticed a definite rise in the Hispanic population when compared to where we had travelled to previously. This was also obvious through the main Houston cuisine, which merged meat-based Texan comfort food with traditional Mexican offerings. No surprise, then, that ‘Tex-Mex’ was created in Houston.
Determined not to let the weather get the better of us, and putting to good use our stiff British upper lips that we have naturally grown up with in London, Dean and I headed towards the Houston Museum of Fine Arts. Here, inside this sprawling building, we found countless exhibits that were genuinely informative. The Native American collection was particularly impressive, telling the story of the original settlers in this vast land, and their creeds and practices of many thousands of years. It is an area of history and society that I sadly no little about, and I was therefore pleased to be able to take the time to learn a little more. After all, the first people in America were the native races that today, in some areas, struggle to find either political acceptance or an alternative way to sustain their age-old ideology within their own communities and the nation at large. It is a sad tale, and one which must not be forgotten, lest America completely divests herself from her heritage, a vital and cogent link with the land that stretches back way beyond Britain’s role in America’s story.
Another dazzling exhibit in the Museum of Fine Arts was in the corridor of lights. This mesmerising rectangular space, with a door at either end, and shafts of laser-beamed lights criss-crossing each other at different angles, created optical illusions that made us hesitant underfoot and curious to explore further. Out came the cameras, unsurprisingly, as we took full advantage of this light show. Facebook profile pictures will no doubt follow. At the other end of the vast museum building, Dean and I were fascinated by scale models of housing developments that had been deliberately smashed to pieces on one side, and left untouched and undiminished on the other. There are, I am sure, numerous socio-political points to be made from the creation of scale-model conurbations, perhaps enforcing upon the viewer the fact that America remains fiercely divided, particularly in terms of governmental housing policy, but as a mere bystander, and indeed a foreigner, it would perhaps be out of place of me to lend too much of a critical eye to our viewing experience. Nonetheless, if you find yourself in Houston, Texas, and you fancy doing something a little different for a few hours, this museum is a must. Well spaced and signposted, it certainly helped while away the time as it rained outside.
“Houston, we have a problem.” There was no need for Dean and I to utter these words during our sojourn in this sprawling city, but it is a phrase known the world ever after immortalisation in the film ‘Apollo 13’ – the cinema account of the true story of NASA’s ill-fated 1970 lunar mission. Houston will always be synonymous with America’s space programme, and while the rockets may blast off from Cape Canaveral, Florida, mission control is most definitely in Texas. With boyish hopes of letting slip the surly bonds of earth, dancing across and above light-splintered clouds and touching, with outstretched hands through the stratospheres and the great beyond, the very face of God, Dean and I went boldly where no Radlett citizen has gone before, to the very heart, the epicentre itself, of America’s heralded space centre. Some criticise NASA for wasting money that could be spent on schools and hospitals and troops, while others simply argue that space travel is an irreverent irrelevance. Yet beyond the political infighting there remains something romantic and magical about exploring beyond the known world. President Kennedy summed it up when he explained that America would choose to go to the Moon “not because it is easy, but because it is hard” and because “the Moon is there, and the planets and the stars are there, and with them new hopes for mankind.” With these inspiring words in mind, the windscreen wipers in the Jeep moving at full speed, and the satellite navigation aimed at NASA HQ, it was one small step for man, and one giant leap for Dean and Sammy.
Which is why I am a little concerned to report that, having spent a good few hours at NASA, I am now reasonably convinced that there is more to the conspiracy theories regarding lunar fakery than meets the eye. Supposedly the main headquarters for NASA, the Space Centre seemed to lack any form of control, security, organisation, and basic management. We were waved into the $10 car-park, told we could leave the Jeep for free, and then somehow worked our way in to the centre itself without having to part with any money for a ticket. This culminated in getting aboard a monorail train that would take us through the many NASA sights, again supposedly for a nominal fee, but, in a neat twist of fate, completely free for Dean and I, ignored as we were by almost everybody in a position of authority. Our tour guides seemed bewildered, tired, haphazard, lacking much information about, for example, the mission control room, apart from to point out which seat the Queen had used when she once visited the centre. Questions on how the space shuttle works (and, to be fair, the exact replica size practice shuttle is an impressive specimen to view) were waved away with mere shrugs, and one supposedly senior NASA scientist appeared to drop his accreditation and security cards on the floor, in the middle of the viewing public, with the sort of carelessness that one would expect from a schoolboy, and not a salaried member of the world’s most pre-eminent space programme.
When it reached six o’clock, a janitor whose face resembled a skull emerged from the shadows and started shouting alarmingly loudly at small children to vacate the area and go home. It appeared to Dean and I that when this place closes for business, they mean it. “Get out!” shouted the man at Dean, who was enjoying playing with an exhibit where you can pretend to power up the lunar module all by yourself. Dean and I responded with a series of pranks and gestures across the main lobby floor of the centre, finding as much slapstick comedy out of the exhibits as possible while the janitor, always a few steps behind, desperately tried to make us, and the many screaming, shouting, crying children, leave the centre so that all the miserable employees could similarly go home and forget that they have to work there. What an odd place it was. Part awe-inspiring, part ridiculous; occasionally fascinating, often bewildering, and most definitely, for Dean and I at any rate, completely free of charge.
Please do not let this put you off visiting Houston, a city with real cultural appeal, big steaks and a cosmopolitan mix of interesting people. It’s just that for some reason the people at NASA had obviously not heard Kennedy’s speech, or familiarised themselves with why space exploration is important and exciting and wonderful, and why Houston is lucky to have the space centre in its environs. Perhaps Sam Seaborn from the television series ‘The West Wing’ sums that up better than I can:
“Because we came out of a cave and we made fire. We put wheels on the ground, ships on the sea, and planes in the sky; we gazed up at the heavens. The history of man is hung on a timeline of exploration. And this is what’s next.”
Austin:
We drove through the night from Houston to Austin, the state capital of Texas, and noticed the weather stat to clear as we made our way west. Arriving late at the motel, a decent sleep was in order before exploring this beautiful town over the course of the next day.
The next morning was bright and sunny, a return to form after the singular aberration of the previous day’s rain and gales. Throughout our trip to the United States, neither of us were particularly homesick. I had been concerned about missing Spurs matches, but thanks to the wonders of Fox Soccer Channel had actually managed to see more of my beloved side than I would have done in London. However, that Sunday morning in Austin made me miss home more than at any point on our trip thusfar. Why? Because Spurs had decided to wait for me to go to America before scoring a sensational nine goals in one game. Yes, I watched it. Yes, I was beyond elated. Nonetheless, when your team wins 9-1 you really do want to be there in person.
Still, if there is a way to put English football to the back of one’s mind it is to travel around a new city, and Austin duly obliged, with its tree-lined roads, impressive civic buildings, well-kept parklands and squares, and imposing state structures, including the state Capitol Building. Texas is, of-course, a large and important state, both politically and economically, and duly has an administrative and governmental building befitting the state’s role within the nation. With a domed roof and columned front, at the end of a long boulevard that itself is lined with statues and sculptures, flowers and well-spaced oak trees, the Capital Building can be seen for some distance around. The dome roof itself is particularly attractive, and inside a painted mural across the ceiling helps cement the fact that Texans are proud of their state and heritage, and are happy to display the state’s history in its central building. Large scale prints and paintings adorn the walls, featuring battle scenes, local politicians and frontiersmen at work: the men and moments that helped sculpt and form the republic of Texas, from Native Americans to the Spanish, the French, the British and then the revolutionaries, the pioneers, the oil men. Politically, we may be far removed from the sensibilities of Texan attitudes (though perhaps not so much in the major city centres), but there is no denying that they are proud of their ideals and culture, and the state’s standing as a key electoral battleground. We may rudely and disproportionately scoff at the politicking of Texas’s most famous son, President George W. Bush, a former Governor of Texas also, but he and his father (not to mention President Lyndon B. Johnson also) illustrate the power this state can have if you achieve high office here first.
Across from the state governmental buildings is the University of Texas campus – beautifully crafted and laid out, with its own mock Roman buildings and centres, glorious palm trees and finely cut grass quadrants, around which book stores and coffee shops lend a sense of organised bohemia to the otherwise Deep South sensibilities of the rest of the citizenry. Feeling at home amongst the scenery and the sunshine, Dean and I relaxed in a roadside café, dipping in and out of the New York Times Sunday supplement, planning the evening ahead, and enjoying a short interlude to our walking tour of the town.
By nightfall we were ready to head downtown. After our Halloween experience in New York, the word ‘downtown’ will forever be associated with our good friend Dylan Viner’s atonal rendition of the song of the same name, and taxi cab drivers across many states will no doubt have been bemused by the jocularity which Dean and I frequently linked to it when we asked them to take us there. In Austin’s case, downtown means the famous 9th Street, and the roads off of it, where live music and food outlets line the boulevards, complete with neon lights and hard-working tradesmen attempting to escort us into their establishment above any other. Although a Sunday evening, there was still a decent vibe and Dean and I enjoyed burgers, drinks and live music in an iconic setting before the fatigue of so many weeks travelling began to catch up with us. Inevitably our attentions turned to the past few fabulous weeks, and how much we had managed to achieve during that time. We still had Dallas to come, of-course, but as Sunday night turned into the early hours of Monday morning in Austin, Texas, we could not help but feel the first pangs of emotion at the prospect of returning to London. Determined to enjoy our final couple of days, we headed back to the hotel, aware of a long drive the next day towards a city famous the world over: Dallas, Texas. Forget who shot JR, a far more important murder mystery occurred here, in November 1963 – a moment and time in history that will live in infamy.
Dallas:
Like Houston, Dallas sprawls for miles around, encroaching into nearby Fort Worth and gobbling up the surrounding countryside with its miles of interstate and flyover systems. In the city centre, skyscrapers abound, but with architectural differences in style and structure that are synonymous with Chicago. These impressive buildings were not only tall; they looked fabulous, with varying angles, materials, and designs sitting close together in the financial district. The lack of uniformity, beyond their obvious height, made walking and driving around Dallas a pleasant experience, particular as the central roads and avenues are wide and pedestrian-friendly, inviting tourists to take a look around as they go about their business.
Dallas is an important city, and is the home to many international organisations, predominantly oil-based and with far-reaching economic capabilities. Like Houston, it is proud of its heritage, and deferent to the tragedy of November 1963 and the assassination of President Kennedy. Dallas is a real southern city, with cowboy hats, knee-high boots, and silver-buckled belts, all around. Politically to the right of centre, it still boasts rich cultural traditions and ethnic mixes, and is clearly an affluent urban zone, complete with large, gas-guzzling cars, giant portions in restaurants, and imposing buildings. Sam, who you will remember from Baton Rouge, told me that “everything is bigger in Texas.” She was right, certainly with regards to Dallas. On our first evening in the city, Dean and I ordered two of the largest steaks you are likely to see, complete with a side-order of potato-skins that would have been enough for five or six people. This was after enjoying our hotel’s complimentary milk and cookies reception.
Earlier we had travelled out of the centre to the largest shopping mall in Dallas, in order to finish off buying gifts for our families and perform a final, futile search for some Major League Soccer jerseys. Amidst American Eagle, Abercrombie, Hollister and Dean’s beloved Urban Outfitters (I believe Dean made at least one Urban purchase in every city we travelled to), we found a bonafide cowboy shop, similar to the beautifully crafted independent store that we popped into in Dexter, Michigan, with Adam Jacobs, some weeks previously. Amidst the belts, the spurs (!), the checked shirts and boots, the gunslingers and holsters, we found a bewilderingly large display of real cowboy hats. Jacking up my own jeans as high as they could go, and placing my thumbs into my pockets, I paced up and down the store in different cowboy hats, perfecting a southern drawl of an accent, and preparing to draw my pistol at the slightest interference. Dallas is the start point of the age-old Wild West, and I was determined to look the part with a cowboy hat of my own. It was a battle between my financial budget and my fashion sense. The town wasn’t big enough for the two of them. I bought the cowboy hat and presented it to my Dad at Heathrow Airport, having insisted on wearing it on the plane. It makes saying “Howdy ya’ll” all the more rewarding.
That night Dean and I found a specialist steak joint and toasted our adventures. We’d come a long way: literally and metaphorically. As the vodka flowed, and we delivered talking heads to the camera about our feelings on what we’d seen and experienced, and the people we had met, it dawned on both of us that returning to London was going to be difficult. In order to stave off the blues we moved to a number of different bars and, true to form, found the locals to be friendly and accommodating, so much so that a waitress in one bar came over and informed us that a businesswoman at the other side of the bar wanted to buy us a drink. Dean chased up her name and number. What came of it? You’ll have to ask Dean.
Dallas has a congenial air about it, friendly and engaging, where the people (true of Texas in general actually) are pleased to talk and listen, and keen to often their opinions on a multitude of subjects. Particularly interesting was to hear political opinion that goes against the grain of British views on US politics, without resorting to the sort of bigotry or ignorance that we in the UK like to pretend characterises much of the south. The reality of course is much different, and Dean and I found intelligent and informed Republicans who offered a diverging view with clarity and insight.
The social transparency of Dallas was maintained the following morning as we made our way to the Texas Book Store Depository, just a few blocks from our hotel, in beautiful Texas sunshine. To the naked eye this rather uniform building may seem irrelevant, but within its confines, in the corner room on the sixth floor, Lee Harvey Oswald loaded a gun and fired numerous shots towards President John F Kennedy’s presidential motorcade as it travelled through the centre of Dallas. Kennedy, and his wife Jacqui, were in the car, with Vice President Johnson, native of Dallas, in the car just behind. Waving to the crowds in his open-top Cadillac, Kennedy exuded optimism and hope in a new America, a shining new era of Camelot. In the ensuing confusion and fear, the anguish and terror, part of America’s soul was taken, lost on that fateful day as a young president in his prime was gunned down by a crazed assassin. Whether conspiracy or the actions of a singular mad man, the impact of this event resonated across the world. Big Ben, in the heart of London town, chimed once every minute of Kennedy’s funeral while the Queen’s guards stood in silent salute. The attention of the planet was on Dallas, Texas.
Forty-six years later, and outside the building on the road that passes it, a simple ‘x’ can be found: the exact spot where the bullets hit. Across the street is a memorial to JFK, a permanent plaque, statue, water feature and walkway leading towards the fated road and the infamous grass knoll alongside. Inside the building a museum and exhibit goes through, in minutiae detail, the events of 22 November 1963 and what it meant to America and the world at large. After coming through a revolutionary battle, a civil war, two world wars, and in the midst of civil rights struggles, the murder of JFK changed the United States of America indelibly. It scarred a nation, knocked its confidence and focussed minds on healing what Kennedy’s brother Robert later called the ‘mindless menace of violence’ that stalked the streets. Decades later this work is not finished, despite the political therapy of President Johnson’s social reform bills, or President Reagan’s inspiring oratory, or President Obama’s historic election.
People refer to the Kennedy administration wistfully, using the phrase ‘for one brief, shining moment’ to illustrate its beauty, its ambition and its tragic temporary status. Is Camelot back in America today? From what Dean and I saw and experienced there is certainly a new sense of civic pride and hope and enthusiasm in a more tolerant and socially inclusive land, despite its still evident polarisation. Kennedy would argue that the work of America is never finished, that the pyramid on a $1 bill is deliberately not completed because the point of this nation, and the real sentiment behind America’s fervent ideals, is that the American dream is continuous. It is not an end goal or a place or a specific: it is a state of mind, and one encapsulated by John F Kennedy and his own era of Camelot. Yet look at what has happened here since Kennedy’s epoch was halted all too early by the bullet rather than the ballot: the end of segregation, man on the moon, economic upturns, the election of Obama.
It may be perplexing that Dean and I found this part of Dallas, Texas, to be a fitting end point for our trip: a place of carnage and chaos, of bloodshed and disaster, yet the beauty of America is how this nation deals with its challenges, as the fictional President Bartlett reminds us: “Every time we feel we have measured our capacity to meet a challenge, we look up and we are reminded that this capacity may well be limitless.” Everywhere we travelled we saw hopefulness and friendliness and great pride, so to be taken to the scene of a great American tragedy having just witnessed America’s present confidence and positivity was an important and rewarding experience, filling both of us with an immense sense of pride, hope, happiness and our own spoken and private ambitions: emotions that made a long journey back to London seem a little less trying, a little less difficult.
From Boston to Dallas, with everything that came in between, Dean and I lived America: from the skyscrapers of New York and Chicago, to the plains of Louisville, Nashville and Memphis; from the stunning campuses and people of Ann Arbor and Baton Rouge, to the dividing lines of Birmingham, the colour and vibrancy of New Orleans, the sprawl and confidence of Houston, colourfulness of Austin, and importance of Dallas.
For a few spectacular weeks, Dean and I were in America. We’ll be back, of course, but for both of us the American dream is no foreign and imagined concept: for one brief shining moment we lapped up this magnificent country, yet we will live the American dream forever.
Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame
With conquering limbs astride from land to land;
Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand
A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame
Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name
Mother of Exiles. From her beacon-hand
Glows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes command
The air-bridged harbour that twin cities frame,
"Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!" cries she
With silent lips. "Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore,
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tossed to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!"
Emma Lazarus, ‘The New Colossus’, New York City, 1883, now adorning the Statue Of Liberty.
