Do You Know Who I Am? My One Month in Austin, Texas

“That’s right you’re not from Texas. But Texas wants you anyway.” – Lyle Lovett

 

In early 2013, after two years of research, I made the big decision to move down to Austin, Texas. Tired of Midwest winters and Ohio taxes and looking to shake things up, by the end of last year I sold my furniture, ended my apartment and car leases, packed personal items in storage and saw my future in the Lone Star State.

 

Austin is (supposedly) the coolest city in America. Robert Rotriguez. SXSW. Apple. Google. Sandra Bullock. They’re all down there, in hot weather, not paying any state or city taxes, making things happen and attracting 110 – 130 new transplants, every single day. Like the California Gold Rush, Austin’s become a magnate for the West Coast Rich (Hollywood + Silicon Valley) and the Post-Recession Prodigies, all looking to score big in a Blue City inside the Red State.

 

Known as The Live Music Capital of the World, as well a major foodie town, with U of T at its center, Austin’s a hotbed of multi-generational activity. Who wouldn’t want to be a part of this Cultural Eden?

 

This Midwesterner.

 

Signs. Signs. Everywhere Are Signs.

 

I should’ve taken it for a sign when, just two day before I was originally supposed to move, in early March, that my housing fell through. As in the person from whom I was supposed to sublet a place vanished without a trace. I quickly re-navigated to my cousin’s house in Florida and if I wanted to escape the Vortex, I should have just stayed there the following month, too. But, I’m a stubborn broad.

 

I arrived in Austin on April 1. Again, another sign of the random absurdities that would hit my way. The “fully furnished” advertised apartment I prepaid $1000 for had no dishes, towels or bed sheets. On my first day, the owner took me to the grocery store (where his picture hangs on a department wall) but then left me stranded there saying, “I’m sure there’s a bus here somewhere to take you back.” I figured out the bus system quickly. It’s easy, quick and cheap. But anyone who knew I rode the bus immediately assumed I was homeless. Perfect strangers would try to convince me I’d be safe in the car with them just so that I didn’t set foot on the bus.

 

Luckily, I picked up a bunch of maps from the airport on my arrival and taped them up all over the walls of the stark living room: Texas, Austin, Public Transportation. I was hell bent on getting oriented, getting settled and getting on with my new life. I had a plan, damn it. But the tape wasn’t adhering. And every day I had to re-tape at least one corner of one of those falling maps.

 

Given my job gives me the flexibility to work from anywhere, I was grateful that I could still reach out to my clients, write for this publication and enjoy the fruits of entrepreneurship. It’s how, a month at a time, I supported myself in Chicago, Dublin and Coral Springs. But. My “fully furnished” apartment also had no cable, no TV, no wi-fi.

 

Suddenly, in a vast state that thinks it’s its own country (Texas Monthly is self-branded as “The National Magazine of Texas”), I wasn’t so connected to the outside world. I had to call my cell phone provider and max out data to 20MG in order to use the iPhone as a tethering device. And yeah, one hour of Mr. Selfridge = 1MG of data.

 

Suddenly, life felt increasingly isolated. So I did whatever any woman in my position would do. I leaned on a dating website to meet new people.

 

Ahmed

 

Ahmed (not his real name), a Persian man who on our drive to the coffee shop never once stopped talking. About himself. At one point he turned to me and said, “Don’t worry. I’ll ask you questions later.” And, later. “We’ll see my friends there, so if they ask, we met at the YMCA swimming pool.” We arrived at a cool spot called La Dolce Vita (Does every city have one?) and sat at the end of a long outdoor table. It was April, but April in Austin. So a very warm, pretty night. He asked me what I wanted and went in to get our drinks.

 

As I sat and listened in on the conversations of his friends, the topics included the temperature of Kelvin, why food bags don’t explode on planes but do when you go hiking and whether so-and-so was tenure at the university. I was invisible. Because giving me any sort of attention in their conversation would mean they’d have to stop talking about themselves.

 

When Ahmed tried to engage me in conversation, one of the first things he asked me was, “Do you know who I am?”

 

“No.”

 

“Didn’t you Google me?”

 

“Yes. But there’s 100 people with your name.”

 

“But did you Google me in Austin?”

 

“Nope.”

 

At this point, the very surprised and self-important Ahmed proceeded to go to his Etsy app and show me his storefront. He’s a very talented stain glassmaker. Quite whimsical in his designs, the product was actually nice. But he was obviously quite disappointed that I didn’t know this about him apriori.

 

At one point he ran in to get another cup of coffee and at that moment, some guy pulled up in a Lotus, rolled down his windows and as the same table of self-involved friends turned his way, he was a god. Because he was driving a Lotus and he wanted everyone to know it.

 

By the time Ahmed returned with another cup, Lotus Man realized he missed an audience member, walked up to him and said, “Did you see what I’m driving? Did you see what I’m driving?” Like a David Mamet play of repetition where none of the characters realizes the joke’s on them, Lotus Man and Ahmed engaged themselves in bragging rights.

 

Eventually, a woman who Ahmed knows showed up and he told her, “This is my friend Alex. She was touring Ireland.” Because heaven forbid he could introduce me as someone who just arrived in Austin. That would be too trite. Suddenly I became his Lotus.

 

The woman looked at me for one second, then went back to talking about herself. Ahmed then said, “We should do brunch. I haven’t seen your husband in a long time.” The woman then started discussing all the reasons why she and her husband have been so busy. I lost track. Or perhaps I was still trying to learn the temperature of Kelvin?

 

Finally, Ahmed’s woman friend agreed that they should in fact do brunch. At that point Ahmed suggested a certain place. “Yes, we should go there,” he said confidently. “I have a Groupon.”

 

 

Christopher

 

Christopher (not his real name) is a divorced white dude that works for Apple. The first time I met him was at the Mexican place around the corner from me. I walked there and prior to he texted me incessantly. I should have taken that as a sign. He seemed nice enough, though quite short. And had a strange mommy-issue angry side to him that he tried to masquerade with fun and flirtation.

 

I went home within an hour and he later texted that he wanted to take me to see the city. So one of the weekend days he picked me up and we headed to this hip area of town where parking is almost impossible. He was giving people the finger. He tried to encroach on the parking spot of an older Mercedes-driving couple and when the older man got out of the car, Christopher pulled the, “I was just waiting for you to park” BS. Christopher wasn’t very stable.

 

Parking several blocks away, across from a high-rise, as we headed towards Rainy Street, aka Cool Central, I felt the heat. This was April and I was feeling quite hot. I wonder what it’s like here in August, I thought?

 

We walked past all the food trucks (trailers, they call them there), bars, clubs and restaurants. One was made of multiple shipping containers with artist graffiti on one wall. Another featured wide leather seats, outside. Yet another was inside a tent with pink curtains. No matter where we went, string lights followed. You’re not in Austin unless there’s string lights.

 

It was Sunday afternoon and everywhere everyone was getting drunk. At least that’s what it looked like. And smelled like. Not one of these venues played live music. Instead it was DJ-reigned EDM. Tattoos, punk hair, runway clothes and a Vespa upholstered in Louis Vuitton leather found us. There’s absolutely no way to tell who is rich and who is poor. And between the clothes, the brightly lit signs and all the color, Austin felt like one giant Instagram.

 

I did enjoy talking to the bartenders. Because the bartenders will tell you the truth. The bartenders are real. Some used to work Silicon Valley. Some were Boston consultants. Now they tend bar, start whiskey businesses or bounce the door.

 

At one point I noticed that Christopher had too much to drink and I told him to either stop or I’m taking a cab home. So he did. And I slowed down the walk to the car by sitting on a bench for a while. He was mumbling all this nonsense on how he wanted to change his ways with women and that he’s a really good person and blah blah blah.

 

As we were approaching the car, he noticed a bird in the short tree in front of us. And something inside him told him that he should get the bird’s attention. So in all his wisdom, Christopher took a running start, jumped (to touch the bird) and instead fell, full force and dislocated his shoulder.

 

“Should I call the ambulance?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Where are we?” I then looked up and saw that the high-rise is clearly labeled with street name and number. So I called 911.

 

In pain, discomfort and still reeling from his earlier adventures, he reached into his pocket, took out his keys and moaned to me, “Take my car home.”

 

“I can’t. I don’t know where I am.”

 

“Take it. I can’t leave it here. It’ll get towed.”

 

“But I don’t know the city.”

 

“You have a GPS on your iPhone.”

 

“But my iPhone is almost out of battery.”

 

“Go into my pocket. There’s a wad of cash. Drive to the drug store. And buy a charger.”

 

Luckily at this point, the ambulance arrived and two young and very good-looking male paramedics walked out. “What happened?”

 

I thought about how to frame this? What did happen? What really happened was that an overgrown man-child wanted to literally flip a bird.

 

“We were walking and he slipped and fell by the tree.”

 

Paramedic looked at the poor sap on the ground, turned to me and said, “Yeah. Trees have a funny way of surprising us like that.”

 

 

John

 

John is a very nice man who became a good friend. A total gentleman, born and raised in Austin, he’s seen the changes of the city, over time, and what once felt like home feels strange even to him. The infrastructure can’t absorb the exploding population and traffic. The 20-somethings migration means cheap labor and less opportunity for the more mature workforce. And the drought (which some in Texas are praying away) calls for exorbitant water bills that outweigh any kind of city taxes we’re used to here.

 

John has witnessed all of this and isn’t quite sure if Austin feels like home anymore.

 

But he wanted to show me the town and that he did. He was my best Austin tour guide. On our multiple excursions, in his cool Mustang convertible, he took me to the State Capitol, where I walked right past pre-indicted Governor Rick Perry’s office and where a group of children just outside sang an 8-minute tribute to the history of Texas. Nothing like seeing a little Mexican boy singing about the Alamo while beating his chest in Texas pride.

 

We went inside TOMS Austin. Tom’s Shoes founder took an old abandoned turn-of-the-century house and turned it into a coffee shop/retail environment that sells overpriced sunglasses reminiscent of the Ray Bans Madonna wore in 1984. John also took me past The Hotel San Jose, a boutique escape with tiny rooms and Zen driven hipster design. We also explored the stunning and grand old-money Driskill Hotel, originally built in 1886 by a cattle baron and where, inside one of the lounges you can smell the alpha testosterone that once sat in those couches, lit by sconces shaped from vintage guns. The cigar smoked and gin-drinking meetings in that lounge shaped the infrastructure of Austin, the state of Texas and even the United States.

 

Both hotels are beautiful. And both offer the contrast to modern-day Austin: in one you want to chill out, in the other you want to declare your own country.

 

John was great and I enjoyed getting to know him. We still keep in touch. And, two days into my stay in Austin, I knew I had to get out. Two weeks in, I knew Cleveland would be the best place for me, especially given the incredible network I’ve built here during my decade.

 

Bigger. Better?

 

And to be fair, I did have some great experiences in Austin. Because of Facebook, I saw that my childhood friend Karla, whom I hadn’t seen since 1986, was visiting her brother and so I got to spend an evening with her family. I got to hug Karla’s mom and meet Karla’s husband and two awesome kids. Over fajitas, we were right back in 1986, laughing with glee like the teenagers we once were. I also had lunch with my b-school friend Kumar who I hadn’t seen since graduation back in 2003. He’s since married a German woman and they have a beautiful daughter. The Jewish Federation was also very generous, making introductions with very good contacts in Austin, including lawyers and publishers.

 

I also met Priscilla, a mutual friend of a mutual Cleveland friend. Priscilla and I (and her awesome dog – Austin is very dog friendly with most restaurants not just allowing dogs in but also providing them with water dishes) went out at least once a week and usually to go the movies. I absolutely loved going to the Alamo Drafthouse, the movie theater where if you talk or text, after one warning, you’re 86ed. They also serve food! And it was during one of our movie outings with her, while watching Captain America, Winter Soldier, the whole time I was tapping her and pointing to the screen, “The Statler! West 6th! The Art Museum! The water!” What I saw on screen reminded me of how great and pretty Cleveland was and how trapped and isolated I felt in Austin.

 

The people of Austin are good people. But these weren’t my people. My people are in the Midwest. Because I’m a Midwesterner. Even my hair is. When I went to a local salon for a color touch up and a straightening, to get ready for my Sis’s wedding, what I got, instead, was a 1950′s style bouffant. When I called my Sis and told her this she said, “Oh, what you got yourself there is a Texas blow out.”

 

When I made the decision to return to Cleveland, I asked for a sign. On one beautiful weekday afternoon, when John took me to see Hollywood Hills, a hoity and mountainous area where all the celebrities and high-tech success stories continue to out-build each other in mansions and where there’s now some sort of viewing tax, John pointed out the homes of some big names, including Sandra Bullock. At that very moment, I received an email. From the Lakewood Public Library. They invited me to be part of their Autumn Book Reading/Meet the Author series. They didn’t know I left or that I just wrote a new book. They just wanted me there. And there, in the middle of a gorgeous day, in a sexy car, with a kind man showing me where all the mahers of Austin live was my sign.

 

Full Circle Moment

 

A few days before I was going to leave Austin and head to Cancun, Mexico for my Sister’s wedding, via Facebook I saw that Frank, of Poi Dog Pondering (my favorite Chitown band) was in town. The concert was sold out, but given our mutual support of the craft, he gave me the name of the place he’d be after. Sweet! I called John and asked, “How’d you like to feel 24 today? Pick me up at midnight.”

 

So at midnight, he picked me up and to the city center we headed. I found us a parking spot that was too good to be true. But it was real. And off to the club we went.

 

We arrived at the door and a pretty girl with a clipboard eyed us over.

 

“Hi, we’re on the list,” I told her.

 

“What’s your name?”

 

“Alex Sukhoy.”

 

She flipped through her papers. “Nope. Do you have your concert ticket stubs?”

 

“No.”

 

“Press passes?”

 

“No.”

 

“Then I can’t let you in.”

 

I wasn’t having it.

 

“We’re here on the list. Frank Orrall’s list. He just performed with the Thievery Corporation. And we’re meeting him inside.”

 

At this point, cute girl with clipboard got nervous. She flipped though the pages and miraculously found my name. “Oh, yes, right, it’s right here. Come on in.”

 

John then looked me and said, “I’ve lived in this town all my life. And I’ve never been on a list. You’re here three weeks and you are.”

 

“John?”

 

“Yes?”

 

“Do you know who I am?”

 

Epilogue

 

At that moment I realized that in just under a month, I turned into one of them. One of the very many pretentious people I met during my short time in Austin. That night, John and I also got to hang with Frank, who couldn’t be any nicer. Frank’s a huge rock star who sells out theaters across the country and is more humble than the egos I came across. He even introduced me to one of the original Poi musicians who played on Volo Volo and who then snapped a series of great photos of Frank and me. It turned into a perfect exiting night.

 

But the real exit took place on my very last night in Austin. Just when I thought things couldn’t get any more Kafkaesque.

 

John and I went to Starbucks to hang out and talk before my early morning flight to Cancun. We just made it to the coffee shop before its 10pm close. We took our beverages and sat outside on another beautiful evening.

 

Suddenly, out of nowhere, a large truck pulled up and a large man came out, approaching the Starbucks door. He was holding an Arizona Ice Tea in one hand.

 

“It’s closed,” I tell him.

 

“Hi, my wife and kid are in the car and I was wondering if one of you could piss in this can for me? They’re doing my drug test soon and I could really use some help. I’ll give you $100 to do it.”

 

At this point John and I looked at each other in bewilderment as Truck Guy pulled out a $100 bill. He was serious. He wanted us to piss in his can.

 

“I can’t,” said John.

 

“I work for the government,” I randomly spit out.

 

Disappointed, Truck Man walked back to his truck and in it he sat for a while, contemplating his next move.

 

Apparently, he didn’t want anyone in Austin to know who he was.

 

Reprinted with permission and gratitude from CoolCleveland.com.