50 Miles to Coffee

No matter how you measure it, Texas is big. We spent 11 days tasting, smelling, exploring and getting dusty in the Lone Star State and we never left the little jut that makes up West Texas.

I loved it. And I want to go back. 

As Rock Hudson declared to Elizabeth Taylor in the 1956 hit Giant, when you’re plunked down in the middle of wide-open Presidio County,  it’s “fifty miles to coffee” and even farther to any other familiar treats you might be looking for like fresh produce to cook up at camp—or cell coverage. So we made our own coffee when we needed to. And guacamole too.

And the beauty of West Texas is overwhelming—filled with plants that haven’t seen a drop of rain since August and still manage to eke out a shock of green or a desperate bloom, and people who disoriented us with their kindness.

I’ve been having a debate with my coconspirator in this recent Texas adventure about the impact of such a getaway: Does really escaping—the emails, meetings, piles of laundry, and drizzle—and basking in the heat, the open space and the quiet actually rejuvenate you to engage with everything that’s waiting back at home? Or does that taste of fantasy darken your reality upon return with a cloud of knowing what else is out there?

Regardless, I wouldn’t trade the luxury of a getaway for anything, and I’m already plotting my next one.