I have to come clean. It’s about the date I went on (with my husband) last night. It may wreck my reputation. Here goes…
Let me start by saying, our plan was for innocent fun. And it was…mostly. We took the train downtown to a great little wine bar, Uncorked, to hear some amazing bands, Johnnyswim and The Lone Bellow. The back patio, outdoor stage and sunset were all coming together to make a beautiful evening. It was perfect really.
When the music ended, we braved the crowded streets and walked into the Belly of the Beast, 6th St. in Austin on the last night of SXSW. Nothing too crazy yet. Just a little blister getting rubbed the wrong way by my brown Mossimo ballet flats.
We were almost there! I could see the train that would take us home! We bought our tickets and hurried to the platform. No go. The train looked like a cattle car, bulging at the seams with uncomfortably close bodies, day-old sweat highlighting their sunburned skin. We waited for the next one. (Well, actually an angel of mercy dressed as a Capital Metro Toll Enforcer told us we would have to wait. God bless him.)
Before we new it, we were being drawn by what I can only call a primal instinct toward the booming sounds of a marching band making its way through the streetlamp-lit haze. As we left the train behind, we were enveloped by a growing mass of The Entranced also following the call. Young, old, white, not-white (it was a blur of beautiful skin), dancers, Carlton Banks-like movers and shakers. We were all a part of this samba dance team/marching band hybrid taking over the streets of downtown. It was beautiful. And dirty. (I mean, just imagine the last day of a week-long festival…trash everywhere. Yes, I was talking about trash.)
Lest we be swept away into the night by this wave of melodic chaos, we broke away and fled toward the safety (and babysitter-relieving swiftness) of the train. With the railroad signal clanging in the distance and the train rocking ever so gently, we held in our clasped hands the secrets of a night in the city.
It was a night to remember, but also a time to try to forget. This brings me to my confession.
I, Meredith Cox, the woman who makes black bean brownies and milk kefir……ate at Wendy’s. A whole meal. I even went so far as to dip my blasphemous fries into that Siren of a Frosty.
I licked the salt off my fingers and, with thanksgiving in my heart, asked the Lord to protect us from any roaming vegans in town for the show. Selah.