That's Right I'm Not From Texas

Fading down here in Taos, New Mexico for a short bit. Warm air, warm adobe, still some snow in the mountains— all as expected. What I hadn’t expected is the overwhelming preponderance of visiting Texans. Virtually everyone we’ve met is from Texas. The lower ski slopes at Taos Ski Valley were crammed with snowplowing Texans. One guy in the lift line was wearing a cowboy hat and full-on leather chaps. The cafeteria was full of “y’all”-ing. The parking lot was wall-to-wall SUV’s with Texas plates. Every lift ride was with a Texan—“It’s the closest skiing to home—just a 12 hour drive, you know.” When we mentioned being residents of the Smallish State, people would ooh and ahh—so exotic!

This morning at breakfast a family with distinctly foreign accents sat down adjacent. I overheard that they were Isreali, and struck up a little conversation. “Long trip for you to get here!”, I said. “Oh,” said the dad, “We’re from originally from Haifa, but we’re living in Austin right now.”