Month: March 2019

The 114

Since moving to DFW from California over ten years ago, I can safely say what gets me in trouble most is my mouth. Not to say that my mouth is a problem in particular (okay maybe it is) but I forget that we don’t necessarily speak the same language even when we are all speaking English. An illustration, complete with appropriate exaggerations:

One evening not long after moving here a number of neighbors were gathered in a driveway chatting with beers when one of the few Texas-born Texans, a blonde beauty with the voice of an angel, mentioned a fabulous retail opportunity a few towns away. Apparently there were overstock, high-end stuffs to be had for nearly 50 percent off and that was if you didn’t use a readily available coupon for an additional 10 percent off. One of the other transplanted ladies chimed in with a California smile “I’ve been there. It’s great. It’s right off the 114”. At this the Texas angel shook her head. “unhuh. 114”. Transplant lady repeated, a bit confused “Yeah, the 114”. Texas angel shook her head again “No such thing as ‘the’ 114. ’round here we just say 114.”

I thought about it for a long minute. After a few internal rehearsals I determined I had to put a ‘the’ in front of any highway number. It would never come out any other way – just like I could never give someone the last 4 digits of my phone number. I have to start at the beginning or I draw a blank every time. I had to confess to my new neighbors. “I can’t do it. I don’t think I can drop the ‘the’.” The angel looked at me with something like pity and put her hand on my arm. “Everyone will know right away you aren’t from Texas if you keep saying ‘the’ 114. We’ll still like you but.. you know…”

That night I couldn’t sleep. I tossed and turned. Finally I got up and stared in the bathroom mirror. I tried giving myself driving directions without using ‘the’. It was excruciating. I could feel my body and mind rebel as I tried to casually say “Head south on… 35 West and then take.. 820 to.. 183 Eastbound…” I hung my head. Each ‘the’ was hiding there – a silent pause like an invisible speed bump tripping me. I looked back in the mirror and remembered California. “Take the 22 west to the 405..” So easy – like slipping into a warm bath. But my golden coast days were behind me so I forced myself to keep trying. “Head south on… 35 west…” I heard my husband open the bathroom door. He put his hands on my shoulders. “You’re trying too hard, babe.” I sighed and he gave me a big hug. “So what if people know you aren’t from Texas.”

Over ten years have passed since that day. I still can’t give directions around DFW without using the ‘the’, but I can give directions around DFW and that’s what really matters.

From SoCal to DFW

I’ll be honest, moving to the Dallas – Fort Worth area of Texas from Southern California took a little getting used to. So much was different. Like why can’t people move over when they are going to turn right and what the heck is sweet tea? These were just a few of the questions that nagged at me as I made my first real trip to the grocery store my first week here.

I knew logically it would take time to adapt and I should just roll with the changes. However, it seemed like every few hours I started feeling like I was on another planet. I learned quickly that it doesn’t take a huge deviation from the normal to upend my sense of existential balance. I pushed my cart down the grocery aisle picking out the normal items, something I had done hundreds of times with no major epiphanies or surprises – coffee, bread, peanut butter, eggs, orange juice, vodka. Vodka… Vodka, where are you? I stared intently at the offerings in the beer and wine aisle certain there was some section I had overlooked. Maybe they group products differently? A very kind woman stocking shelves offered to help me and laughed softly when I explained my confusion. “Oh, Honey. We don’t sell liquor in the grocery stores in Texas. Y’all need to drive out for that.” She walked away and I grabbed a six pack of beer as consolation. At home I announced the vodka situation to my husband while unloading the bags onto the kitchen counter. “Apparently we have to drive to another county or something to get to a liquor store.” He nodded in agreement. The neighbors down the street had stopped by to say welcome and the vodka thing had come up. There was a long silence as I thought about our options. Most of the boxes were still packed and we could probably find a buyer for the house we just closed on ten days earlier, but were we the kind of people who would let something like this make us give up and go back to California? I can tell you – no, we are not. All of our underwear, every fork, every Tom Clancey novel we owned was in Texas. I had already given up my California driver’s license to the not-so-nice lady at the Department of Public Safety (DMV for all you Cali-people). As far as I was concerned that made us Texans and Texans are resourceful. So we got in the pickup truck, drove 18 miles (I exaggerate) to the liquor store in the next county and stocked up our oversized pantry – like Texans. These days, liquor stores are a bit more convenient and I have seen a fair amount of this state beyond the county line. All I can say is Texas is still full of surprises.