chillin' at the holidae inn

While I was waiting at baggage claim on Saturday, a loudspeaker announced where gun cases could be retrieved. Gun cases, y'all! Welcome to Texas.

Turns out the Holiday Inn does have a few perks. The first is a business suite, which, for some reason, I was given this evening when I checked in. The second is free high-speed internet access. I'm not going to say the neighborhood is causing me to do cartwheels, but all in all, there is not much cause for complaint.

Spending 24 hours with my family here was fairly amusing. Watching my aunt and uncle in their element with their friends makes me wonder what will happen to me when I'm their age. There is an ease that first generation immigrants seem to have (okay, maybe I should just base this on my experience, and say first generation Indian Gujus) when it comes to spending time in the company of others. They relish it, and they seem not to tire of each other's company. There are these mass outings of friends, and then there is the after party at someone's house. I felt this familiar sense of home as soon as I was sitting on the floor by a couch, listening to a pack of uncles and aunties exchanging stories, laughing merrily, while drinking chai at midnight. My cousin K wondered if our generation has lost this ability to sit and talk for hours. I suppose some would not mourn that loss.

One of K's uncle/aunty combinations stole the show. As soon as everyone found out I was interviewing in the area, I was the subject of the artillery shots of endless questions. I deflected most of them, since all explanations for my current situation feel so long-winded that it would have probably brought the entire mela to a halt. But the uncle/aunty combo came up with great, contradictory responses. The uncle cheerfully remarked that I could move to H-town easily with such good family around, and that he would have four men lined up to meet me upon my arrival. This, I assure you, is somehow much more comical when it's blurted out in Gujarati. The aunty narrowed her eyes at me and said, "What you want leave San Francisco for? You can't do that." The party turned on her, but the aunty defiantly held to her position. "You can move from Houston to Boston. And you can move from Boston to San Francisco. But you cannot move from San Francisco to Houston. That is just crazy." Again, much funnier in Gujarati at midnight. My cousin K was shooting deathray vision at the uncle/aunty combo, but my sides hurt from laughing.

K did take me to see something supercool, and I will post a picture of that coolness tomorrow. She is always vigilant about showing me some new facet of Houston that makes me realize that it's not just about oil and cookie-cutter houses. I'm not sure it's going to be enough to tip the scales though.