There's No Place Like...Houston

Dang-it all, I love Houston. I just do. I know that it’s glitzy to the point of extreme cheesiness, with a Gentlemen’s club on every corner. I know that its lack of zoning gives it a certain “something” that can be described as “quirky”—or just plain “gross.” I know that it’s roughly comparable to the Amazon rainforest in terms of heat and humidity, and that the sheer volume of traffic on the vast concrete freeways is enough to make any cowgirl quake in her boots.

But when I was a girl, a trip to the Houston Galleria easily rivaled Willy Wonka’s Chocolate Factory. I’d always treat myself to a new paperback book, a gold bangle bracelet, a treat from that European chocolate shop with all those cool little marzipan figures. When I was a very young woman—old enough to drive but still young enough for the sight of city lights to take my breath away—seeing the Houston skyline at night, and sailing around the perimeter of downtown on the Pierce Elevated I-45 freeway, made me absolutely thrill with the possibilities and wonders of my life as it stretched out ahead of me.

I loved working downtown in the Pennzoil Building, wearing heels and a suit and a starched white cotton blouse and trying my best to act like a grownup. I loved driving my little white car to work on Memorial Drive past the park, with that shimmering skyline popping into view when I came up the hill. I love driving out west along Memorial, with all those graceful old—interspersed with new—houses. I love the crazy jumble of people from all over the globe that makes a Vietnamese restaurant a perfectly acceptable neighbor for a taco joint or a place serving up Cajun seafood.

I love the whole NASA thing, and the evidence of the oil business everywhere (especially at the prices at the gas pump!) and how you can take an hour’s drive and get to the beach. I love the sea gulls and palm trees, reminding me of the beach even around downtown. I do appreciate seeing right-leaning political viewpoints expressed on bumper stickers around town, and Houston certainly delivers on that. I love the Houston zoo; it’s my favorite one in the world, for sure. I love the graceful, gnarled old oaks lounging around everywhere, and the azaleas and the crepe myrtles and the monkey grass that lines so many walkways. I love when those walkways are made of pea-gravel, which reminds me so much of my grandmother’s house. Nothing says summer to me like the sound of the cicadas crackling in the trees on a stifling August afternoon.

In a strange way, I do love the summer heat, just because it belongs here. It’s connected to the glitz of the people, somehow. Maybe hot temperatures call for metallic sandals, bright glossy fingernails, tank tops, and expensive handbags. It’s certainly true that perfectly coiffed hair makes more sense here than in the wintry Midwest, where winter hats are smashing down your hair so often anyway. I think the heat is also connected to Houston’s culinary smorgasbord, although I don’t know why. Maybe it’s just that muy caliente outdoor dining is so deeply embedded in my memories that I can’t think of eating Tex-Mex, or barbecue, or fried shrimp without psychologically experiencing sitting in the Texas heat as well. After all, that’s why we need plenty of margaritas or sweet iced tea to cool us off with our lunch.

It’s funny how cities do have personalities, for whatever reason. Chicago is solid, experienced, known for its gangsters and skyscrapers. Minneapolis is funky, Norwegian-inspired, otherworldly in its wholehearted enthusiasm for wintertime. Dallas is hip, polished, sure of itself. To me, Houston is real—the place where ladies get out of pickup trucks sporting high heels, and where nobody’s perfect, but anything’s possible. No guts, no glory, down there in that steaming concrete oil town, home of Enron and BP, but also home to NASA and Continental Airlines, Rice University, and a beautifully built new Roman Catholic Cathedral, earthy stucco amidst the steel-and-glass downtown.

Sure, Dallas is way more stylish. Austin is much prettier. Don't get me wrong; it's not that I want to actually live in Houston, necessarily. But for me, as it turns out, there is really no place like home. And Houston is it.