Outta DC, Onto the Set of No Country For Old Men

BORDER PATROL [after I blew past the checkpoint and was whistled back]: Where you in such a hurry to?
ME: Marfa.
BORDER PATROL: Marfa ain’t a place you need to hurry to get to.

On the interstate in Far West Texas, en route to Marfa

MARFA, TEXAS — Austin is already considered a cool town, but Marfa is the place which Austinites consider cool. A place where everyone waves hello at you. A place with a population the same size as my high school graduating class. A place where eight close friends can escape urban hustle-bustle for a holiday weekend, stay in a one-bathroom house together, relax in a sprawling backyard of pecan and apple trees, make homemade breakfast tacos after a morning jog and spend most the days doing nothing.

Nothing besides eating, that is. Friend Hannah, who organized all of us here with her trademark aplomb, happens to be the founder of Supper Underground in Austin. Homegirl knows her food and can cook a mean meal, but even luckier for us, so can her boyfriend Jed, a fisherman/grilling master. Nom nom nom nom.

Cell phone service is spotty, or else I’d be instagramming and tweeting more. But Marfa Public Radio comes in clear, so we’ve been amused while driving around this little town, listening to our coworkers on the radio. But mostly we are enjoying each other and the stars that guide us home at night, as this is also a place without street lights or street signs to show you the way. Sometimes you have to get a little lost to find your center.

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