September 21, 2005 - 1:58 p.m.
"Rita" Sounds Too Much Like "Katrina"
Okay, so they don't really rhyme, but in English-major-world, it would be called a slant rhyme. I don't think I can take another major hurricane hitting another place that I love. The Gulf Coast of Texas was a frequent destination when I was young.
Galveston
What better cheap vacation than piling the car full of beach gear and heading south to Galveston? I developed a sense for the marvelous tacky beach junk sold at kiosks and stores across the South. Poodles made out of shells. The legend of the sand dollar. Dried starfish to accent your beachfront condo bathroom wall.
The Hotel Galvez in Galveston was one of the premiere hotels in Texas during Galveston's boom. By the 1980s, it had lost some of its grandeur, so it was an affordable place for my parents and me to stay. The Easter Bunny found me there one year, much to my delight (I was never convinced that Santa, the Easter Bunny, or the Tooth Fairy understood vacations). I woke up to to a box of Godiva seashells that morning, then went down to swim in the pool. What better life for a 7 year old?
The first of three big trips that my Girl Scout troop took was down to Galveston. There was the memorable beach cookout where mosquitoes descended upon us, requiring a mass sprint to the cars. My father says that there were some mosquitoes that followed us all the way to the elevator at the condos, lying in wait for us the next morning. There was also the day where we could choose what we wanted to do. Most girls opted for the marine center, which turned out to be pretty crappy. I opted to see the Bishop's Palace, a historic building. Ever since then, I'm quite fond of taking tours of old buildings. I shared a bed with my friend Sarah, who had a habit of rolling in her sleep. Quite regularly, I would have to get out of bed and walk over to the other side of the bed because she would be hogging my side.
As I got older, Galveston took on a slightly different significance in my life. One year, I went down to Galveston with some California friends. We sat on the beach and drank beer. The same beach where I played with my parents and fellow Girl Scouts took on an illicit feel, as I wasn't 21 yet. We saw a vehicle driving down the beach and promptly buried our beer. It turned out to be some redneck in a pickup rather than the police.
Another year, a high school friend's mother rented a beach house for a few weeks. I went down for the weekend. He and I bumbled around the town, stopping at the Galvez to see the amazing renovations (and marveling at the significantly higher rates from my childhood). There was also a fair amount of beer drinking involved in that weekend. I vividly remember going out to the beach in the moonlight, beer in hand, and wading in the surf. My friend's crazy family members surrounded us, and we just looked at each other and laughed. It was grand.
The spectre of the 1900 hurricane in Galveston is fairly well-contained to the historical museum. There is a video there that describes what happened 105 year ago. If you to to this page, you can read a blurb about the video. Every story I heard from Katrina about water rising to the ceiling in homes reminded me of what Galvestonians experienced in 1900.
Unfortunately, Rita may again wreak havoc on this dumpy little Texas island that I absolutely adore. Having an affection for hurricane-prone areas is emotionally challenging.
Tomorrow (or soon), I'll try to recount some stories about Corpus Christi, Rockport, and other points south of Galveston.
�
�
