America at last – Part 20

Final day

We gave up on the hotel’s continental breakfast. It was nothing more than a token gesture and we weren’t doing token gestures after being kept awake all night by dance music from a club next-door. We took a walk to the Stockyard café, which gave good value and a great welcome.

Afterwards, we wandered around the old Stockyard building, looking in the tourist shops. In the far corner we spotted a branch of the Ernest Tubbs record store and went in. We browsed through rack after rack of all the old Country favourites – but that wasn’t what we were interested in. Eventually we caught the eye of the tall, rangy assistant. Broad-shouldered and clean-cut, he had cowboy written all over him. Somehow, his deep and angry black-eye didn’t fit the persona.

He introduced himself as Clayton. We swapped names and soon revealed our enthusiasm and lack of knowledge. This was where we first learned the name of the music we’d been listening to. It’s known as Red Dirt – more bluesy, more edge and without the rhinestones associated with mainstream (Nashville) Country. Clayton dug us out a few CDs: a compilation called “Ten in Texas” and albums by Robert Earl Keen and Ryan Bingham. “He wrote the music for the Country movie ‘Crazy Heart’” – thanks Natasha. Clayton nodded.

It was like we’d discovered a new world – one whose air was joy to breathe. Clayton told us to listen to the local radio station, “The Ranch”, to pick up some more tunes. When folks in the Love Shack had said their song was being played on the ranch, we thought they meant… well, never mind. Now we knew. We walked out of Ernest Tubbs with our small bag of CDs to soften the blow of imminent departure and feeling we had made a new friend.

We strolled across the road in the bright sunshine to find the world’s largest honky-tonk, situated behind the Coliseum. Billy Bob’s was open, but pretty quiet at that time of day. We located the box office in the cool dark interior and bought tickets for Saturday night’s show. Headline act was Jerrod Niemann. Natasha was sure she’d caught a song by him playing on a radio somewhere.

I still had no boots. The White Front Store looked like it might be the place. There wasn’t much that the discerning cowboy could want for in there. Loitering by the racks of boots, we soon had the attention of Roberto. Roberto is a straightforward style of salesman who will happily share with you years of accumulated knowledge. I soon spotted them. Sounds corny, but Clint Eastwood, Brokeback Mountain, True Grit – you know the ones.

Then I hit the snag. I’m a 10.5 fit lengthways, which is about average – lots of choice. But the crucial fit is the width around the instep. Most boots are made in a D or E fitting, which seems the norm for men. All the boots I tried seemed to crush my toes a little when I walked in them. I told Roberto. He shook his head and said “No good” then walked away. When he came back, we measured my foot – I was a B fit – unusually narrow. Roberto showed me to the B section. I didn’t see anything I liked. With some things – and cowboy boots are one of them – the look is as important as all the practicalities.

I picked up the original pair again – “Rio of Mercedes” – a light-tan riding boot. I was in danger of making a rash decision. Roberto reached into his long experience and produced a wedged instep for under my heel.

“How does that feel?” he asked.

“Like I’ve got something under my heel” I answered, in all honesty.

“Try this one”, he proffered, “Much longer”.

I looked at the boots. “To be honest, I’m not that sure.”

We were talking 375 bucks plus tax for the boots and they didn’t even fit. I told Roberto we’d head out to watch the cattle drive and have a think but would come right back. He shrugged and gave me his card – he’s seen it all before. Even so, I began to regret making the promise.

We watched the cattle drive – tame old steers who know their way through the streets like milkman’s horses of old. I felt bad walking past the White Front Store as we headed around the corner to Lusky’s / Ryon’s.

The shop was open and we wandered in among the coats, hats and saddles. We were but a short walk from the Stockyards, yet the place felt less touristy. It wasn’t long before we were picked up by a laid-back salesman who just seemed to be browsing the shelves himself.

I told him my size. “Ah, yes” he replied like I’d just confessed to erectile dysfunction. He pulled out two pairs of boots, which I tried on. One was darker and kind of smarter than I would have chosen, but they fitted like slippers. He pointed out that they had a block heel for walking rather than a riding heel and were smart enough to wear for work. I didn’t care about that. In less than ten minutes the deal was done. I had a pair of cowboy boots.

That night, with me newly shod, we headed out to Billy Bob’s. The place was huge, its walls lined with guitars signed by the likes of Willie Nelson. In one corner was a restaurant where we ate ribs and flattened chicken as the place began to fill.

The first band was already playing and couples moved effortlessly around the dance floor, two-stepping and twirling each other by the hand. We got talking to a platinum-blonde lady who was resisting the advances of a Brazilian stag-party. She was a regular and told us how she could spot the locals by their style of dancing. They were immaculately turned-out, straight-backed, the men Stetsoned. We stood and watched by the rail. Eventually, the lady gave in to a Brazilian youth and asked me to hold her drink. He didn’t cut it for long and she soon collected her glass, heading over to the bar and out of sight.

We took a wander and found ourselves in the indoor rodeo area. The action hadn’t started, but we looked along the Hall of Fame photographs where a familiar face smiled out at us. Clayton! World Bull-riding Champion of 2008. So that’s where he got the black-eye. Way to go, Clayton! Not just a pretty face.

Tiring now, we hung on for Jerrod Niemann’s first set. He and the band had the whole place rocking. The dance floor and the rows of tables in front of the main stage were heaving. The crowd loved him. Reluctantly, we slipped away at around eleven, mindful of the journey home the following day. Another band was going strong across the street at the Love Shack. Further along, a dozen custom Harleys leaned nonchalantly in the red neon glow of Ryskies bar and eatery. A fitting end to the journey.

When we woke in the morning, I had bed-bug bites for the first time on the trip. Time to leave. We asked if we could use the computer in reception to check in for the flight. The lady on reception denied having a computer. A little later, as we handed in the keys, she didn’t even look in our direction, gossiping in Hindi on the phone. We walked along to the up-market Stockyards Hotel and Natasha asked the receptionist whether we could use his computer to check in. He was delighted to help and seemed puzzled when we gave him five dollars for his trouble. Such is life.

We had our last American breakfast in the Stockyards café, where we chatted like old friends with John the manager and Jason, who served us. John told us the Longhorns that are used for the cattle drive are carefully chosen for their docility, as a real-live stampede through the tourists could be bad for business. He smiled, though, as he told us how cars parked on the roadside by unwary drivers are “keyed” by the Longhorns as they bustle past. One of our favourite Red Dirt tunes was playing on the radio.

Six hours later, we were in the air over Texas. Or, more accurately, we were over a storm in Texas. It was 22 May. The US had gone through a period of severe weather, with wind-damage and serious floods all down our route. What we witnessed was just the aftermath, but now we were being buffeted around above it. The tail of the 747 where we were sitting was being whipped from side-to-side and occasionally the plane dropped precipitously. Natasha is a seasoned traveller and generally unmoved by air turbulence, but from the seat next to me I heard “Oh, my word” and “My goodness”. Not good then, eh?

The last three weeks had blown a lot of preconceptions. We’d been inspired by some of the people we met, roughed it on buses and in flea-pit motels and found out a lot about ourselves and each other. We worked out that it is feasible and cheap to cover large distances by Greyhound – in fact, many thousands of Americans are doing it every day. Now we were among people who probably found us dirty and smelly. To be honest, we didn’t really care, and it wasn’t just the travel-weariness.

Our journey had covered around 2,600 miles through some of the world’s great cities, absorbing the culture that we’d grown up watching and listening to back home. We discovered a genre of music we’d never previously heard and now loved. Soon it was all half the world away.

As we came in over the London suburbs around eight on a steel-grey Monday morning, the teenage girl behind us peered through a window and whined “The houses are really small. Everything is really small.” Yep. It sure is.