Marfa, Texas.

Here's why I keep planning to a minimum.

After 17 hours on an Amtrak train listening to David Sedaris and Ram Dass recordings on my netbook, I arrive in El Paso Texas and decide within the first 2 minutes of getting off the train that I don't really want to be there.  It's a hideous place.  Look, I'm not fussy, but this town is just awful, there is nothing redeeming about it and from the conversations around me I gather that I'm not the first person to have come to this conclusion.  I go into the train station and hang around there for awhile, trying to decide what to do next.  The train happens to be stopping for an hour in El Paso before continuing on its journey to New Orleans, so I have time.  As things go it's not long before I meet two people who are about to board the train.

In a previous post I mentioned that in El Paso you can walk across the border for a margarita in Mexico.  You don't want to do that.  Apparently there's been like 12 murders right on the other side of the border this month, which is just plain unpleasant and didn't make me feel the vacation vibe.  El Paso is dry, hell, the whole of Texas is dry.  My nose is bloody, my back is itching and moving my facial muscles is increasingly challenging. It's also cold but I'm not scared since Frances' jacket has turned me into the Abominable Snowman.  I just wish it had moisturiser lining the inside.

The two friendlies at the station tell me about their destination, Alpine, the next stop on the line and a place I heard of before through a friend of Frances'.  It's a small Texas town known for its artist community and so without thinking twice I walk up to the Amtrak reservations station, book a ticket to Alpine Texas and get back onto the train.  El Paso can kiss my ass.

The woman I've been speaking to is called Vickee.  She's been visiting her hubby who spends alot of time working in El Paso, and now she's heading back home whilst hubby stays behind.  We chat and I tell her what I've been up to and what my deal is.  "So what do you do for a living?" she asks before long.
"I run a theatre company," I say and smile. She seems impressed that I'm traveling on my own and that I run my own business back home and every now and again turns around and says things like "You go girl!" or "You tell um!" and then high fives me.   

It's not long before she suggests that I come and stay in her cottage in a town called Marfa, which is about 25 miles from Alpine and as it's against my religion to turn down free accommodation I hop in a car with her and her friend Fran who is waiting for us at the Alpine station 5 hours later (making my train ride 24 hours altogether).  It amazes me how asking a strange person to come and live in her house seems like the most natural thing in the world to her.  My first taste of Southern Hospitality.  "What's your name?" they ask in the car.  "Nell," I say, knowing this is Nell country.

We drive.  Texas reminds me of Bloemfontein.  LA is like Pretoria by the sea, but this place has Bloemfontein written all over it.  Big and vacant, conservative at heart, religious as hell and filled with colorful characters.  On riding into Alpine my two new hosts turn up the music, smoke a fattie and do a jigg in the car even though they're both in their 50's.  I like it.  Vickee has bright orange nails and her and Fran rant about the two guys that Fran is currently dating.  She can't seem to decide which of the two to keep. 

"Hey, that's Randy Quaid's truck," Vickee says as we drive down the main street of Marfa.  "There he is! Did you see him up front?  Him and that wife o his just bought up that property and turned it into an eyesore.  Did you know he was arrested like 3weeks ago for not paying for his hotel bill somewhere in California?"  As an avid reader of a tabloid site called dlisted.com I am aware of this fact, and slowly a realisation dawns on me.  

Randy is the brother of Dennis Quaid, by the looks of it the older of the two.  I read the article a couple of weeks ago, there was a picture attached, but Randy was barely recognisable, looking more like a bum with a big fat ole beard than the guy who played in movies like Independance Day and the like.  Then it hits me.  Obviously my spiritual path has lead me to the Quaid family for enlightenment.  I mean how often does this happen, running into both Quaid brothers in one week?  That's not just coincidence my friends, that's divine intervention.  I guess this is how most good stalkers start out.  Something like this happens and they just roll with it.

I make a mental note to come in search of  Randy and his wife tomorrow when I plan to investigate this little hamlet, but for now I need some rest and recuperation so I head home with Vickee to check out her cottage which turns out to be huge.  I have a kitchen, a bathroom, a double bed and a tv, probably the most privacy I've had on my entire trip.  The woman is amazing.  She's brought me food and expects nothing in return.  I'm so thankful I don't even know what to say.  After realising that there's wifi in here I kick back and decide to move in permanently.  Or at least stay till Thursday.

This is "There will be blood" country, "No country for old men,"  and although I've only met fabulous people my internal alarm tells me that I will have to stay well clear of psychos.  Yes my friends.  I'm in the heart of Texas and hell, who knows what will happen.

All I know is that I want to be in Lafayette Louisiana by Monday night. 

Other than that, I am open to suggestions.

(Randy and his wife.)