24 Hours in Austin / 24 Ore di Austin

Howdy! Press of warm, stuffy air hanging in the jetway. Sunshine. White smiles. Dashboard GPS. “Take grampa head.”  Ya’ll. All ya’ll. Riverside. South Congress. Austin Motel. That’s mo, not ho. Cracked asphalt parking lot. Shag rug. Yellow knit coverlet. Window A/C that shimmies and whines. Freshly painted toenails, Lincoln Park After Dark. Sandals. Jeans. Hotel San Jose. Tattoo sleeves and sunglasses. Sweat beads sliding down pony necks. Chirp, tweet, squawk. Ma’am. Tennis coach. Flagstone verandas. Sangria. Dogs off leashes. Toddlers splashing. Howdy ya’ll. Rio Blanco Pale Ale. Well, I’ll be—is that right? Smiles. Ford pick-up truck. Ribbons of bats at dusk. Barton Springs. Green, serene. Howdy ya’ll! Chips and salsa. Wooden fence. Shady Grove. Queso catfish with long-grain rice. Pony neck. “Where’s he gonna meet someone—standing in line at the Chick-Fil-A?” Hugs from strangers in line for the ladies. “I’m in a few of them from 20 years ago.” Escorts that open doors. U-turns. Broken Spoke. Sequin shirts and cigarettes. Clint, Dolly and Mr. White. Shaking hands, howdy ma’am. Honky tonk. Reels and slides. VW Bus. Hi-Ball. Karaoke peepshow rooms. Mean-Eyed Cat. Fireman #4. Welcome-what-can-I-get-ya’ll? Smiles. Midnight confessions on a breezy veranda. Fireman #4. Agua, agua. “The quickest way to a man’s heart is a steak knife through the chest.” Agua, agua.  Bright sunlight. Squawk. Guero’s. Migas. Pico de gallo. Hot coffee, cute waiters. Breakfast for $7. Sunglasses and sweat. Allen’s Boots. Il Tesoro. Ladies on porches with curlers and foil. Trapped on foot in the suicide lane. Taco trucks. Shaved ice. Parts and Labour. Detroit Jillian at Blackmail. Petted by strangers. Vintage T-shirts. Sweaty. Windy. Dusty. Edgy. Bright. Friendly. Tattooed. Delicious. Austin.

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