(Just to add some perspective here - this was my first published blog entry. I'm trying to make the switch from Yahoo 360, of which I have had quite enough, to Blogger. Please bear with me while I experiment.)
So, away we go to Texas, my daughter and I, to find our perfect truck. I used to do the horse thing when I was younger, and I had a friend who was a dedicated cowgirl. She taught me the term: "shitkicker boots". Well, I bought a "shitkicker" truck.
I did a lot of panicking about this trip, primarily because I'm the granddaughter of a clinically diagonised Paranoid Schizophrenic, but also because it represented the first time I had taken my daughter traveling without my husband.
Did I mention she's four? I was doing a lot of panicking.
As it turns out, she's a great traveler - too great, because instead of throwing temper tantrums when she perhaps needed to, she just smiled and got on with enjoying everything. She didn't forewarn me that she was over-stressed, she didn't say, "Mommy, I don't feel good"... well, she DID, but not until it was way too late, but more about that later.
Anyway, on with things.
The first leg of the journey, from Oakland Airport to Las Vegas, was only eventful in that the pilot apparently thought it would be amusing to dust off his "Chuck Yeager" impression, you know, 180 degree turns, stand the plane on its wing to get to the runway, which put Mommy's stomach somewhere in the vicinity of her Medulla Oblongata... Eyewwww... I should have known enough to take my dramamine in the airport, but we had been running late and I was astounded we got there on time, so little niceties like not barfin' kind of went by the wayside.
Elise had a great time, however - this was her first plane trip and she chatted with everybody, including the guy in the seat next to her on the way to Las Vegas, who was going home to his wife and four-year old son. He noticed my hyperventilation and promptly distracted Elise, for which I am still grateful.
That was the first leg. The second, Las Vegas to Amarillo, was a LOT better - the pilot knew how to fly straight, for one thing. Still, it was sometime in the middle of that last flight when I realized I was NOT going to be doing too much more flying.
We got off the plane (my hands were shaking for hours afterward), got our stuff and waited for the hotel shuttle.
Texans sure are nice, y'all. No less than three people asked us if we needed a ride, sitting out there on a bench at midnight outside of Baggage Claim. The airport cop came out and stood with us while we waited. I made a call to the hotel, and they sent the shuttle.
Okay, so up pulls the hotel shuttle, which was driven by Don the Cowboy.
Don looked like he'd been rode hard and put away wet, fifty years ago. Here was a guy who had the long skinny body, the almost-but-not-quite-bowed legs, the lines burned into his face, the missing teeth, the white straw hair, the slouch, and best of all, the ACCENT! He was a real cowboy, and talked about doing the rodeo circuit with his brother years ago. I did NOT ask him how he got from rodeo to hotel-shuttling at 1am.
Here's his bull-riding story, reported faithfully, as I'm writing this only minutes after hearing it:
"I only ever done rode a bull once, that musta been eighteen years back, back before I become a Christian, and I was drunk at the time. That bull come outa the chute, I tell you, I sobered up right quick. Didn't never do that again."
I asked to shake his hand, which made his face light up. I guess he doesn't get enough respect now...
Which brings us to the hotel room and 1:32am local time. We're off to bed.
Amarillo Travel Guide!: Click here...
Tomorrow, the truck!
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