Texas wasn't ready for the Smurf. I was all over that state, met some nice people, ate some bar-b-q, and had a great time. It is still good to be back home.
I liked Texas. It is simply too hot for me. I don't know how they do it. If 6 million Mexicans try to slip into Texas every year, I tell ya, it must be a god-damned inferno down there in the Halls of Montezuma. Out of the frying pan...
My poor husband. I was raised by French people, and the lilt in my voice can get me passed off as a very light-skinned Hispanic. I fit in down in Texas, to an extent.
My husband was raised in Dorchester, MA. He says things like "cah" when he asks me to clear the driveway, and uses the term "wicked hammahd" when asked to describe a fun night out. He was fine until he spoke aloud...then everyone in Texas was calling him "Vinny"....as in, "My Cousin...". A man named Spree at the IHOP started laughing aloud when Stephen spoke, and he was only from New Jersey. "I had the same problem when I moved here, man."
My older sister, who is more French than I am, pronounced the nickname of the Miami Heat's center as most Americans would pronounce the word "shock", but that's a whole other post.
It took a lot of effort, but I did force my sister into eating a fried catfish sandwich at what I think was called "Poppa's" on Westheimer Street in Houston. She shan't be having that again. I wouldn't even sit near it. We also were walking around 5th Ward looking for barbq before a cab driver pulled over and explained that we might be safer near the hotel district.
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