The Lonely Planet

lists 37 things that visitors to the US should do. As far as I can tell, we've done no. 37 - "Experience the highway" - to death in crossing Texas. I'm writing this in the middle of our first really, really long driving stint as we head west towards New Mexico. The scenery has changed fairly dramatically (as, frankly, you'd expect if you were to drive 1400 miles across 7 states): it started out in the Carolinas* with lots of lush, verdant greenery like Northern Europe, changed to swampy land with the trees all choked in creeping vines in the deep south and now, as we turn west in Texas, has changed abruptly to more sparse, dusty scrubland. We're not in the desert proper, I think, but it can't be long before we get there.

We left New Orleans rather later than we should have, and arrived in Houston around 7 pm where rush hour was still in full flow. The traffic was mental enough to be a bit trying, and we missed exits, took wrong turns and generally failed to find our way around for an hour or so. Eventually we found a likely looking area with some motels and fast food joints and got a room in a Super 8.

Dinner was at a Flintstones-esque drive-in diner that had all the charm of a deserted McDonald's.

Houston was, in short, not a whole lot of fun.

We got back on the road early the next day; as with Houston, we've managed to miss out on getting much of a feel for some of the other places we've stopped because we didn't arrive until later on in the evening, and San Antonio looked interesting enough to warrant a bit more time.

We arrived just after 2 and found ourselves a Travelodge (1.5 x Super 8 - cheap, good room, free breakfast but no internet) near the centre of town and wandered in for a look. San Antonio is the most European-feeling city we've seen, I think; it actually has something approximating a town centre that is walkable in size and isn't deserted after 6 pm.

We looked around the Alamo** in the brutal mid-afternoon sun, and after a few restorative beers in our room, put on our party pants and went back out for the night. We ate to the sounds of a mariachi band and wandered along the banks of the river running through the centre of town, looking for a decent bar.

Madogs, a terrible travesty of a 'British' theme pub, wasn't it. San Antonio must be a popular place for conventions, judging by the number of business men in there, top buttons undone (ROCK!) watching the bizarre pseudo-cabaret/karaoke/comedy act. We got out and went back to Club Rive, where we'd earlier been put off by a cover charge.

Turns out there are three types of guys in American bars: smoove groovin', serious-looking black guys there to grind up against the hordes of willing girls; high-fiving ex-frat types and the aforementioned businessmen twitching arhythmically to the R 'n B. We don't really fit any of those categories. (Well, maybe I'd make the last one if I tucked in my T-shirt, but for the sake of argument...) Even Josh, our putative secret weapon, with his actual ability to dance failed to make much inroads in talking to any of the locals and we left about 1.30 am, full to the brim with too-cheap rum and coke. Typically, as soon as we left the club, we got talking to a girl who worked in the area who gave us an off the cuff highland fling (and very good it was too, Heather!) and told us to email her with the addresses of our various travelogues.

That was San Antonio, and it was a welcome change from the flying visit mode we'd gotten into. Currently we're on the road to Carlsbad, just south of Roswell, New Mexico, where we intend to gawk at a patch of desert where a UFO may or may not have crashed.

* Can I call them that?
** The Alamo is/was a chapel and attached courtyard where a small Texas force were massacred to a man by the Mexicans. Not normally something to cheer for, but apparently it was the spark for the revolution that made Texas into an independent republic for 9 years. What is it with celebrating disastrous battles, exactly? Culloden? The charge of the Light Brigade? Eh?