Texas Panhandle - Caprock, Palo Duro Canyon, Amarillo Route 66

Caprock Canyon: Like most awe-striking landscapes of the American Southwest, the complex geology of formation is lost to the layman. I have no idea how these canyons in North Texas formed (water?acid?rain?fire?), let alone how corrugated layers of dusty red came to alternate with milky smooth crystal; All I know is that the white stripes of dull geo give the canyon its namesake. Caprock undergoes this and that geo-chemical process to form gypsum, a crystal if you will, of the kind you can probably find hanging on a necklace from Urban Outfitters. But standing under a canyon embedded with crystal for miles on end is not an experience dull by any standard. The layers are mesmerizing- evolution , the ebb and flow tides, and the fossilization of our own memories into points of dull and sparkle past, all big mind-busting ruminations I had under the shade. That and having my whole hand pricked by the soft insidious thorns of a cactus pear topped the Caprock experience. It took me two days to get all the thorns out.

Palo Duro Canyon: Most people don't know that Texas houses the second largest canyon in the United States. The first, largest, really does not have a creative name. This one is a little better. Spanish for 'hard wood,' Palo Duro actually describes the vast expanses of Juniper and Mesquite trees that cling on to its cliffs. It's visually striking and metaphorically humbling to see them growing along sideways, ancient roots exposed like long fingers, ragged, but always rigidly planted to the earth. Another striking feature of the canyon is the red, red earth. Terracotta, burnt orange, sienna, rust, a warrior color made bronze by the sun and running copper down the flooded river banks. This is the land where the Comanches roamed, where the romance of cowboys and Indians solidified, and where Georgia o'Keefe wandered for days mesmerized by its awe-inspiring colorscape.

Cadillac Ranch and Historic Route 66: I still have yet to do the Great American Road Trip: driving from Chicago to LA, experiencing America's Heartland, retracing the steps and shops of the Historical Route 66. Built in the 20s as a precursor to the Interstate Highway System, the route was vastly used by Depression Era Dust Storm migrators. It's called the 'Main Street of America' for  a reason. Historical preservation teams have revamped the now extinct highway by making landmarks of the old gas stations, saloon towns, road signs, ..etc. Cadillac Ranch is an art installation outside of Amarillo by a collective who wanted to trace the ever-evolving model of the Cadillac. (and perhaps comment on American consumer culture? ) Each of the 10 cars are a different model and either used, new, or junked. Obviously after many years, the cars began to fade and chip, and now a new tradition of tourists spray painting the installation with hippie-wild graffiti came into play. It's even encouraged to peel off the paint (layers of spray paint end up peeling like dull plastic) as souvenirs. I didn't bring my spray paint, but I do now have a hand-sized chunk of hardened Cadillac paint displayed in my home bookshelf.

Amarillo Route 66: Although Texas is the second shortest (only to Kansas) strip of Route 66, the preservation team did a fantastic job turning the road into a funky, commercial, Antique America. Tiques galore, of the crochet-bordered, books of Texas wildflowers, hanging brass Lone Star kind, each store serves up such distinctive Texan, Southwestern brand of nostalgia. Take a look at the picture of a little dive restaurant called Cowboy Gelato below. There are so many things right with this picture: the jukebox of country favorites, the two neon signs for beer, the in-house-out-house word play, the twisted iron chairs with hearts. Somehow I felt weirdly, sadly nostalgic. For what? A Texas I was never a part of, a history outside of my own culture, time and place? What then? As I sat there eating my lemon sorbet and frito pie (C'mon this is Texas ya'll), the epiphany hit me like a bucking bronco. I want to be part of a cohesive, ceremonious culture of tradition and people because I don't have one. Even til this day, I can't call any place my home, not China, not Texas, not even New York. None of these cultures fit me perfectly and I find myself isolated from each if I get too deep. So I skim the surface, take in culture like an eager academic, but rarely ever feel emotionally connected to any tradition. For better or worse, this is how my brain and heart function, a result of the context of migration but also of my roaming questioning mind. But it must, it must, feel amazing to be deep in the muddy middle of a culture, time, and people, and exude that pride and confidence of 'I've found my home to live and die' ---I look at the Texan-accented waitress, singing along to country music, feeding her son peach-cobbler ice cream, with joy and sorrow.