We’re not in Kansas anymore

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Today was mostly spent on the road, heading from New Orleans to Houston. After another late one the night before I was pretty tired.

I got into Houston around 6:30 in the evening and went straight to Finn’s apartment. Finn had just moved here from New York a week ago and was not happy about it. He’s living in downtown Houston, which is not the center of excitement on weeknights and weekends. It’s very much a business district and that’s it. But he’s close to work and has a decent place so it works for him.

Finn is not your typical Texan. He’s the quintessential New Yorker, born and raised. The sense of flare in his style, with his messy “going out hair” and his taste in cars is not befitting a Texan. He had to buy a car when he moved here, so instead of the stereotypical pickup truck, he opted for a new 300Z convertible. It’s a sweet ride - he has good taste. Much better than when he owned the Crossfire in Richmond.

So the two of us rolled out for dinner around 9:00. We went to a Mexican place just outside the city limits called Teotihuacan. From the outside, it wasn’t much to look at. Located in an obviously Mexican district, with its numerous Mexican restaurants, the place looked a bit shady and had steel bars protecting it from unwanted access at night. But what it lacked in aesthetics it more than made up for in the quality of the meal. We both agreed it was by far the best Mexican food we ever had. I may never be able to eat Mexican up north again.

After we devoured tortilla chips and two types of dip (one a salsa with a little kick and the other a salsa verde) Finn dined on a large burrito and I had two types of enchiladas, a beef and cheese and a chicken with enchilada sauce. Both of us were entirely too full, Finn quite uncomfortably. But it was just that good that we couldn’t stop eating.

After dinner, on our way heading out to the bar, we passed through a very wealthy neighborhood called River Oaks, which felt like the Beverly Hills of Houston. The homes were monstrous, undoubtedly the product of a prosperous energy industry over the last several decades. This is also near where George Bush (the elder) lives.

The bar we went to was called Wild Wild West. Finn had been there a couple years ago, along with Falkenberg, when we all worked at Wachovia. I had remembered them loving this place, especially Falkenberg, so I was very excited to go.

Pulling up in the parking lot in our trendy convertible, we quickly began to realize that we were going to stand out. The lot was lined with large Chevy and Ford pickups. This was only the beginning.

Inside awaited an all new experience for me. As is customary in a Western style bar, there is a large dance floor which is surrounded by tables where onlookers stand. The dance floor is cordoned off by a railing where people can set their drinks while they dance. This seemed strange to me as we always just took our drinks out on the floor, spilling everywhere. I soon learned why it was necessary to part ways with a drink.

The people down here take their dancing very seriously. I had asked Finn earlier if they played country or mainstream pop/club music. He said it was a mix so I expected to see normal club dancing and maybe some line dancing here and there but that was about all. I was wrong.

Everything was rightfully in its place, which set a very proper atmosphere. There were folks young and old. Married with kids (and maybe even some with grandkids) back home. In college. At a Bachelorette party. The works. And many, especially the older gents, were decked out in their finest Western gear - boots, cowboy hats, belt buckles and plaid flannel shirts tucked tightly into the waists of their snug pants. As Finn put it, they were Marlboro Men. And these cowboys could dance.

Now I know basically nothing about dance. But I was impressed. The floor was fairly crowded and people were moving about every which way but generally taking counterclockwise laps around the floor like they were at the Daytona 500. Women were spinning every which way as their men would lead them in turns, snapping them out and back, dipping them, raising them in the air and shuffling quickly back and forth. It was controlled chaos.

Needless to say we played the flies on the wall role quite well. We soaked it all in over a couple beers. Towards the end of the night, around 1:30, some local gals came over and asked us to dance with them. Finn, in no mood to actually participate in the customs of the South, and I, which saying I have two left feet would be a gross overstatement of my dancing abilities, graciously declined. Then Finn had an epiphany - it would be really funny to see me stumbling my way around the dance floor. Next thing you know I am being led to the gallows as he looked on with a devilish smirk.

After the shock wore off that I was unfamiliar with the dancing style of the South, Kelly, my dance partner, tried to teach me the style. Okay, two steps left, one step right. I’m smart. I observe and mimic well. I can do this.

Foolish. Silly. Ridiculous. These are all words that come to mind when trying to verbally depict the scene at hand. As the twinkle toes Texans swirled around me, I slowly developed the coordination to execute these seemingly simple moves. Then I got cocky. I attempted to walk and chew gum at the same time. I started a conversation with her and lost focus on my dancing. Not a good idea. Back to basics.

We did that for two songs. Meanwhile, Finn was busy snapping plenty of pictures for evidence. To avoid the inevitable blackmail attempt, I’ve decided to just come clean with the pictures.

After my great performance, Finn and I discussed what appeared to us to be a totally different outlook on dancing and bar socialization. Back home, dancing in a club or bar generally is part of broader motivational forces and both sides know the rules of the game. Normally a man would only dance with a woman he doesn’t know if he’s interested in advancing things to some other level. And a woman would dodge advances if she’s not interested. Here, it was more an obligation for men to find single women who were not on the floor or in the midst of a heavy conversation and it was an approached woman’s duty to accept the proposition. No strings were attached. It was all for fun. We were part of a totally new paradigm.

I had been to Houston a couple times in the past, most recently a month ago to visit family. They’ve lived in Houston all their lives; they’re not recent transplants. They have the thick Texas accents. Yet they don’t fit the stereotypical mold that was on display at Wild Wild West so what I saw was new and a little unexpected.

While some of this spectacle was certainly amusing, it was so because of the cultural differences that separates Texans from Yankees. And these cultural differences are what I’m really most interested on this trip. To see such a spectacle captured the essence of what I’ve hoped to see. For that, I wouldn’t trade the night out at the Wild Wild West for anything. Plus, I actually had a lot of fun.

Tomorrow I’m still in Houston with Finn.

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Photos

Meal at Teotihuacan
This is by far the best Mexican food I ever had. Homemade tortillas go a long way.

The Dancing Cowboy
Check out the ensemble. I would be yanking at the crotch of my pants all night.

Me dancing at Wild Wild West
Notice the deer in the headlights look on my face.

Line dancing
We sat this one out.