Fort Worth

Within six hours, three tableaus of Texas triggered from memory:

• The sizzle of fajitas, steaming up my glasses. Fresh flour tortillas made by an old lady in a glass booth, featured, centered in the restaurant, like a 1900s surgeon in his theater, an exemplar of craft and experience. Irregular shapes, soft brown char marks, salty and sweet, good enough to eat by themselves. Ordering three more before I even start the first set.

• The near-absolute desolation of culture in the blank suburbanity of it all. Green and pale yellow hills next to gray roads and freeways. Frontage roads. Chain restaurants. Strip malls with vertical roadside displays, a grid of two by six, horizontal nameplates of the same businesses over and over: Quick Wok, Insurance by Edna, Happy Nails, Shoot Here Gun Store, Kidzone.

• The night driving. I’ve never found it in Los Angeles. Being on the loop, orange pools of light, no one on the road at 9:45pm. An entire interstate infrastructure just for you to zoom from your hotel to the CVS. In Los Angeles, no freeway is ever empty, at any time of night. Someone is always going to the same place you are. In Texas, maybe no one wants to go anywhere at night? Maybe they built too many freeways? I have no idea. But gliding home, a little tired, keeping your eye on the emptiness, changing lanes without looking even though you should, two blinks and you’re in your driveway. Many nights were spent like this.

My first volunteer doorknocking is tomorrow. Wish me luck (and if you have any Fort Worth friends that want to join me, have them email volunteer@chrisgrace.com).