Austin, the weird

The unofficial motto of our second destination in Texas, Austin, is “keep Austin weird”, a slogan reportedly coined by local community college librarian Red Wassenich, and his wife, Karen Pavelka, in response to what they felt was a “rapid descent into commercialism and over development”. It follows then, that any good Austinite will purport to keep his or her city “weird” not by, say, strapping a live duck to their chins and walking backwards reciting sections of the Book of Revelations in Klingon –undoubtedly a weird sight, but one that would hardly have an effect on the stultifying conformity of a corporate mass culture; but by continuing to support and sport alternative lifestyles as well as local individual businesses, keeping franchises at arms’ length and promoting the city’s unique culture through its business ventures.

The irony of the rapid descent into commercialism and uniformity of the “keep Austin weird” slogan when printed on an ubiquitous t-shirt notwithstanding, there is a salutary rebelliousness to the motto, refreshingly unburdened of the usual platitudes about the American can do spirit.  To be weird is to be unique in a manner that may be disquieting to others and not hastened to be imitated. The motto suggests that Austin’s tradition is at odds with the Texan, even American tradition, and invites all potential rebel rousers and miscreants to enjoy the city’s famed tolerance. I consider myself a person with a healthily quirky disposition and have raised an eyebrow or two in my life time when voicing unexpected viewpoints. My life style, whilst not completely on the avant-garde of human behaviour, does not fit into the mold of the average person my age. Yet, upon arrival in Austin, I was crippled by the uncomfortable feeling that I was not weird enough, something that as a Madridian[1] I never thought I would experience. You see, being consistently, even persistently, weird is hard work. It is hard work to always be genuine, original and slightly odd. Now and then we all relax into a slouch of conformity by talking about the weather, having a Starbucks coffee or getting a mortgage. (In fact, just there I was thinking about getting a mortgage whilst having a Starbucks coffee.)

 So we arrived in Austin and began our foray into weirdness very poorly by driving to the vicinity of 6^th Street in the hopes of having a drink and maybe getting a whiff of some live music. If there is any city in the United States where we could have put our usually disconcerting pedestrian yearnings to good use in the service of enhancing our weirdness, that city is Austin. But no, we drove instead, just like anybody else. Austin had demonstrated just how weird it could get earlier by furnishing us with an extraordinarily good Mexican meal in an authentic Mexican restaurant –not Tex-Mex, you see– and this is how we repaid it. Driving into town. Like anybody else would.

I must say, though, that although we drove into town, something magical happened when we arrived, indeed something that you may call weird outside of Brooklyn: restaurants, bars, cafes, shops, you frigging name it, all stood within walking distance of one another. You could, for argument’s sake, get a burrito in one of the many food trucks parked in lots and sporting picnic tables, and then WALK to a cocktail bar for a slice of pie and a michelada for dessert, then take another few steps and stare at the wondrous and, indeed, weird, bric-a-brac in a vintage store and finally be blinded by the neon sign of a fifties motel. Just like that. One foot in front of the other in a matter of minutes: one small business after the next, mostly owned by the people who run them. Nobody need tell you about the secret cafes and bear bars that grace the remotest corners of suburbia like in Houston. Nobody had to tell us about the vegetarian café where I had one of the best breakfasts I have ever tasted in the shape of a perfectly fried egg, perfectly airy and moist slice of corn cake, perfectly pulpy freshly-squeezed orange juice and perfectly roasted coffee.

 

All was out in the open here. I have always liked a city that opens its arms to strangers. Weirdness can be beautiful like that.

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[1] I have always been plenty weird in Madrid. I wonder what could become the unofficial motto of Madrid, what is there to preserve that is unique to its culture? “Keep Madrid noisy, polluted and a stronghold of PP” does not exactly roll off the tongue…