M
J U S T B C K F R M :
A
O
98 AMERICANWAY
FEBRUARY 15 2009
MY FRIEND, SEATED
next tome at the bar,
leaned forward as thoughhe had a secret. I’d
toldhim Iwas soon to leave for aweekend in
Austin. He is a University of Texas graduate,
and I thought he’dbe pleased.
Instead, hescruncheduphis face, stamped
out his cigarette, andmadewhat I consider a
startling confession: “I’m so sick of Austin.”
InTexas, this isblasphemy. Texansaresup-
posed to believe, without question, that the
three coolest things about our state are Tex-
Mex food, Shiner beer, andAustin. Austinhas
the hippie-music cred of Seattle, a top-tier
university, adowntown lake, andproximity to
the Texas Hill Country—what’s not to like?
To love, in fact?
His pointwas not that Austinwasn’t once
tremendously cool. It was that everyone
(including his friends from Chicago, his col-
leagues in NewYork, etc.) discounts the cool
factor of every Texas city out of hand while
still giving Austin a free pass. “And so much
of the city has changed,” he said. “Austin has
become a lot like Dallas or Houston. It’s not
unique.”
Well, is there a place in the city that still
holds the eclectic, funky, famouslyweird vibe
of the Austin he remembers? He shrugged
his shoulders when asked and said, “Maybe
SouthCongress.”
So itwasthatIpulledontoSouthCongress
Avenue, theheartof the “SoCo”neighborhood
just southof downtown. Thehip factor of this
area was solidified when Quentin Tarantino
filmed scenes here along the street and in
some of the restaurants for
Grindhouse
. I
ByEricCeleste
Austin,
Texas
down.” I used to recruit college students in
Austin, and every time I venturedon campus,
I found I couldn’t dress grungy enough to fit
in. I always felt like the kidswere pointing at
me and calling me a culture narc. So I kept
it simple: white undershirt, blue jeans, black
cowboy boots.
For that evening and the rest of theweek-
end, I rented thehotel’sPolaroid camera (and
later, its old Remington typewriter to bang
out captions). I wore my Austin uniform up
and down the few blocks of South Congress,
and I soaked in the funk.Atnight, hugeplates
of Tex-Mex and big helpings of live music at
Guero’sTacoBar andEl Sol yLaLuna (which,
sadly, is scheduled to move downtown, to
Sixth Street, thismonth) were followed by a
pub crawl on both sides of the block. In the
morning, migas and a Southwest-inspired
breakfast (and amazing Bloody Marys) at
South Congress Cafe were followed by the
best vanilla latte I’ve ever had at Jo’s, a small
walk-up coffee shop in the parking lot of the
San José. The days were spent lazily patrol-
ling Allens Boots, area boutiques, and resale
shops for must-have deals (defined as: Can I
slip this through onmy expense report?).
I didn’t find Kurt Russell, but I did talk
to a heavily pierced waitress who favored
knee-high sockswith holes in them, a college
graduate student who had spent an entire
afternoon chatting with an area homeless
man, and a shop owner, who described how
to construct aproper Day of theDead shrine.
They were funky, hip. You could even call
them cool.
was just hoping to find someone half as cool
asKurt Russell.
It was Friday night, and I knewwhere I
wanted to stay: theHotel San José, amodish
urban hotel when it opened in 1939, import-
ing the Spanish colonial architecture, bunga-
lows, and open-courtyard feel of California to
theSouthCongressAvenue thoroughfare. Its
declinewas sealedwhen a freewaywas built
near it, and local legend has it that the San
José became a brothel in the 1960s before
finally bottoming out as a drug haven in the
1970s and 1980s. Not long ago, it was lov-
ingly restored, a symbol ofwhatwas happen-
ing to the entire area.
“Hi, do you have a room?” I asked the
front-desk help. They looked atme like Iwas
joking. “Weekend nights are booked weeks
out,” a kind youngwoman toldme, as though
explaining addition to a four-year-old. “Well,”
I asked, “can I get on a waiting list in case
someone cancels?” “That never happens this
late, and there’s already a long list, sir,” she
said.
Then the phone rang. “Well, we’ll still
have to charge you for your room. … I un-
derstand.” She put the phone down, looked
at me, and then ran her eyes along the long
trail of names on her waiting list. She raised
her head, smiled, and held out a key. “Lucky
you,” she said.
Fair enough. After ordering a sangria (the
hotel-bar special) and enjoying the cool Aus-
tin night in the Zen-heavy courtyard, I went
to my spare but sophisticated bungalow
to change. And by “change,” I mean “dress
