Highlights from an end-of-summer road trip

Months back, I snagged two tickets to a silver-smithing class in Marfa, Texas. When the dates finally crept up on us, my mom and I made a plan for her to land in San Antonio. From there, we took the slightly longer route that hits Marathon and along the Mexican border (versus the ever-dull Van Horn to El Paso stretch). 

From central TX, the southwest ushers you in with more mystical foliage and desert plants. The smell of creosote. Just before hitting the super-quaint, cute Marathon and it’s French Laundry sundries shop; We saw the sign for Uvalde coming in some miles.

Something about it makes you nervous to see, like bracing yourself for the headlines related to the shooting. That’s how it felt to see the signs, and the local gun shop’s gigantic ad for silencers and more, right at the Uvalde county line. But as we rolled through the stretch of what was truly a highway town, every TX-sized truck and minivan with a variation of ‘Uvalde Strong’ stuck across the back window.

The Walgreen’s and local auto shop, both with signage alluding to the same message. 

And just like that, you’re emptied onto the last strip of Uvalde, where a green cemetery sides the road. 

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We made it to Hotel Paisano early evening. Framed photos of Hollywood celebrities on the set of the old western, Giant, are hung throughout the lobby and first-floor hallway — an ode to where a portion of the movie was filmed, and likely the hotel the crew stayed in.

According to some sign skimming, Marfa was born of the expectation that a big oil boom was coming. When that boom never came, the town and it’s underlying air of prestige simply stayed. Stood still. 

There are plenty of indicators that, had you gone to Marfa some 20 years ago, it would be a much more modern (perhaps even ’boujie-er’) version of the west Texas town. But the spirit of way-the-hell-out-thereness seems like something it’s always embodied. 

Walking around, you feel little pressure to be anywhere or do anything. A force into present mindedness. We loved chatting with the owner of a gallery on the main strip — . There, he introduced us to a number of works by the architect-turned-artist, Peter Friedburg. Born of German roots, both Friedburg and Mexico claim him as an artist of Mexico City. 

IF YOU EVER FIND YOURSELF OUT HERE, GET YOUR A$$ TO CACTUS LIQUORS! This was a real gem — for plants and alcohol alike!