I’m back to live for several months in the state of my birth and rearing, but upon arriving I already feel strange. Which is strange in and of itself, considering I was home for Christmas, albeit briefly.
However, it doesn’t quite feel like Texas, which I guess is why I’m apt to reflect. The barrage of black and gold and gold and green are not Texas colors, or perhaps they are, since the Super Bowl is being held locally in the imminent future.
The Steelers and Packers fans must marvel not at the snow and ice we’ve received, but at our inability to deal with it. Main roads are less cleared than back country roads, and some major highways are barely better. But the dusting of snow that turned into half a foot has caused native Texans to marvel. “It’s like frosting,” said mom. “It’s like normal,” said I.
I will also have to get used to the fact that I am not in my apartment for which I do not pay utilities and in which I am used to a balmy 74 degrees. I am in fact in the house of my adolescence for which my parents do pay utilities and in which I bundle up against a more frigid 64 degrees.
And although I can on all legal and moral fronts now consume alcohol, interacting with drunk young females, slightly creepy foreign men, and the talkative and, drinking, even more talkative and repetitive inhabitant of seat 2E, I think I shall keep myself wary.
I also forgot that many signs are in English and Spanish here.