Shakespeare and Shiner Bock, Together at Long Last

The freeway out of Illinois was long, hot, and boring. My phone kept updating... and updating... and updating. I would later find out that this was because my Crapberry had evidently caught a virus. I would also find out the value in purchasing the (relatively affordable) insurance policies that can cover smart phones. But for now, I was in the process of finding out how my '98 Mercury Sable could handle a one thousand mile drive between Illinois and Texas with absolutely no avenue for help in the event of an emergency.

This stretch of road led me to the biggest discovery I made during my trip: evidently, between the Mississippi River and the California border, people actually drive the speed limit. I saw the numbers on the signs bump up from 65 to 70, and I thought to myself, "Do I really need to be going 78 miles per hour in this heat, while driving a car that was born when Clinton was President?" Much to my surprise, however, the opportunity never really presented itself. Evidently, fellow Wisconsinites, there isn't just one state that has the Mississippi River on one side, Lake Michigan on the other, and God-awful motorists in-between.

Wink.

So through the congeniality belt I went, every now and then touching base with locals along the way. As the day drew on, the people seemed to get friendlier and friendlier, and my knuckles seemed to get whiter and whiter. After all, night was creeping up on me, and my mission for the day was to find a dorm room somewhere in the largest state in the contiguous US without any means of communication.

Heading westbound through Arkansas, after finally deciding that I hadn't misread the directions and missed my exit 150 miles before, I smelled radiator fluid. My concerns were amplified by the fact that it was scorching hot out, even in the late afternoon. A chill ran up my spine when I saw the drops hitting my windshield, and I stuck my hand out the window, desperately hoping that the mystery liquid wouldn't burn. They drops stung, but they were so small that I couldn't tell whether or not they scalded. My heart rate shot through the roof, my stomach dropped into my shoes, my mouth dried up, and I committed to the idea of being stranded in the middle of nowhere with dignity. That all changed when I saw the stranded vehicle on the side of the road and realized that somebody else's radiator had blown during a light rain shower. I had been pranked; I had been pranked by God.

Finally, I pulled into Kilgore College, following signs that led to the campus. I decided to circle the perimeter of the the school until I found my friend's car. After one turn, there I was, asking about where I could find him. After fourteen hours on the road, watching both a sunrise and a sunset from my car's window, suffering extreme heat, and navigating back-country Texas roads which Texans evidently have no scruples about giving names to in Klingon, I knocked on his door, tired, yet relieved. "Chris! It's me!"

The response? "Go the !@#% away! I'm busy!" You can all take the surgical masks off. It turns out that Southern hospitality isn't contagious.

After I asserted that I would not be going away (Chris had just thought I was somebody else, or so he says), he introduced me to the Texas night-life. BBQ, beer, baseball, and pool. Chris had grown up by me, and we have known each other for about fifteen years. Although he makes his permanent home outside of LA, he made his pilgrimage to the Lone Star State this summer for the same reason that most people would head to a small town in East-Texas oil country: Shakespearean theater. He and his fellow actors were mastering their craft at the Texas Shakespeare Festival. And master it they had.

Every year, for over a quarter of a century, thespians from New York to LA descend on the sleepy town of Kilgore to perform in the Texas Shakespeare Festival. It is, in my opinion, an amazing ordeal. The actors leave some of the most prestigious Drama schools and theatrical hubs in the nation to go to an incredibly hospitable town that offers home-cooked meals to dozens of them at a time in the private homes of theater supporters. It is a level of reciprocated appreciation that few theater companies ever achieve: first-class hospitality is exchanged for first-class culture. The results are outstanding. You have not seen Hamlet until you have seen it in Kilgore, Texas.

Likewise, you have not gone to a honky tonk until you have gone to one with a small army of Shakespearean actors from the coasts. Being in this scenario was a beautiful form of culture shock. I'll never know if the Texans out-friendlied the actors, or if the actors out-schmoozed the Texans, but I had a riot. Watching one hundred people dance in perfect unison, unrehearsed, in cowboy boots and high heels, just for fun, must have been a little humbling for those who need to rehearse for weeks in order to do the same thing professionally. Cowboy hats and pool cues and beer and baseball and bikinis (Yes, bikinis were worn with chaps by the bar girls. Say what you will, this is a terrific business model.) were muddled into a gorgeous potpourri with discussions of plays and professions intertwined. I can only hope to experience anything like it again. It was the definition of Gemutlikeit.

Through my entire stay in Texas, I kept grilling Chris about his experiences in California. I'd asked question after question about the mundane points of life out West: traffic, work, social life, beer prices, housing, etc.

"How are the bugs?" I'd ask.

"No bugs," he'd say. My jaw dropped. Each response seemed to push the big picture a little closer to idyllic.

I was getting more and more eager to see this Golden Coast at the very time that I had quietly predicted to myself that I'd be starting to reconsider my decision to go. Instead, I felt more driven; more committed.

Seventeen-hour-straight-through-drive-to-Tucson committed.