Week 5: Pulp Fiction Party

Dogs bark behind stone and metal net fences when I pass them on my evening jogs - part of my attempt at some healthy routines.

By now I know to expect the growls. Every properly managed household has guards, who despite acting aggressive wag their tails. But I still get startled by the loudest ones, some throw their bodies on the fence, hanging there on their bellies, yapping. I don’t think they get much action on the street, very few people walk anywhere. The couple of people that I do pass all greet me and I smile back.

People say hello but the streets are quiet. The sun falls fast in the late afternoons and the temperature drops as soon as the sun disappears, the contrast in the desert is stark. I wonder what are the public spaces where life is shared, beyond the grocery stores, beyond the odd coffee shop where I overhear a master’s student meeting with his thesis supervisor, others earpods in working behind their laptops.

A friend of my husband’s owns a successful cigar bar, maybe that’s where the men meet up after work to catch up and have a smoke. The sister goes to an early morning group pilates class almost every day. I think back to the basketball game we went to, people sitting together all waving navy blue flags.

But you have to know about these things and places. You don’t come across a group of people sitting on foldable chairs at the park, wasting their evening away. There are no little shops whose owners would people-watch from their stores and offer you a stranger a glass of tea. No neighbors who would knock on your door to ask you to stop your home workout jumping jacks. People are polite but they are generally in hustle mode, lives busy and organized.

The sister and I visit a historic bungalow that has been transformed into a book store, Brave Books. She didn’t know but I had chosen “courage” for my word of the year. A fluffy white cat circles us as we delve into shelves of banned books, poetry and literary fiction, creaking floor boards, fairy lights, Persian rugs and a guitar on the wall. A gray-haired man sits behind the desk, setting the ambience with a perfect playlist. He invites us to a pulp fiction party at the bookshop with free wine and snacks and hundreds of campy paperbacks to discover. I don’t know his story (yet) but it looks like he has fulfilled a dream of his, a corner in the world that is dedicated to things he finds beautiful and meaningful and an attempt to bring people together in this neighborhood. I realize I increasingly need: art, beautiful interiors, books, calm but determinedly passionate and creative people around me. I realize there is community happening here too, even if it’s more hidden.

I keep watching videos and reading articles that compare the major cities in the US. Apparently Dallas can feel soulless but has a thriving job market, and there is no state income tax. Austin is the new Silicon Hills but is in urban sprawl, more people living in the ever-expanding suburbs causing terrible traffic congestion. Denver has skiing and hiking but high cost of living. Nashville is diverse but you should really like the country culture. According to an online test, I should move to Utah.

We talk with a friend who got an accounting job in Colorado and made the move from El Paso. He loves Denver so much that he convinced his girlfriend to move there too, and recently his father was able to get a job transfer. They now co-own a cabin in the mountains. His little brother just graduated college and is joining them. Especially in such a vast country I find these internal migrations interesting.

I remember reading Henri Nouwen’s Latin American Journal where he was trying to decide whether to continue living among the poor in Peru or return to the States to teach. He concludes that these specific moves or even jobs are far from the biggest decisions of our lives. The decisions that truly shape us and matter more are rather what do we really devote ourselves to in our hearts, what fills our imaginations, thoughts and, importantly, actions, no matter the context. What and who and how do we love. He was a Catholic so for him this became a pursuit of devotion to God.

Nonetheless there are still real decisions to be made, and we do arrive at one: before committing to any place, we will embark on a road trip starting in February. We want to meet at least some of the friends scattered across Texas and beyond, who have journeyed with us for the past several years when we lived in another foreign land. Perhaps we will start feeling a special curiosity towards a city or two.

Detail that delighted me: Despite getting targeted by speech therapy advertisements that tell me how having a native accent could increase my chances of getting promoted by 30%, I actually find it fun when people comment on my accent and ask me where I am from. I can see them leaning forward a little when I start talking, surprised that my voice does not match their assumptions. They are interested in a genuine way and don’t needlessly pretend that nothing is different.

Reading: Valérie Perrin: Vettä kukille (original: Changer l’eau des fleurs)

Listening: Buena Vista Social Club, a Cuban ensemble introduced to me by the sister

Practical Progress: Although I am still waiting for my physical green card to arrive in the mail, I could get an official Texas identification card, which is useful because nobody knows what to do with a foreign passport. I need proof of residence instead, which the ID grants. With that, I was able to open an American bank account.