This is correspondent "E" reporting from the field, recently dropped fully dazed into the dry heart of Dallas/Fort Worth, Texas.
My first visit to the lone star state can be typified nicely by my first breakfast here -- mostly pale and ambiguous, white with touches of brown. We ate at a local diner, called, actually, "Local Diner." Coffee was weak, hashbrowns were potato-like, eggs egg-like, bacon bacon-like, and gravy as ghostly as air. I played the jukebox, which surprisingly, actually used 45s and didn't take credit cards, while staring at quaint portraiture of James Dean, Marilyn Monroe, and Charlie Chaplin (looking slightly mistemporaneous). It took me back to the golden old 50's...30's...something.
There is a lot of highway here. There is no terrain to speak of, making it nearly impossible to orient yourself, since the only other possible landmarks are buildings, which are either glass-walled corporate offices, malls, or chain restaurants. Driving along, I found myself emotionally identifying with businesses that included names of friends.
Empty stomachs eventually led me and my family to Denton's El Matador. I've never seen hard-shelled or rolled-up tacos in a Mexican restaurant, but apparently it's possible here. I've also never been to a thrift store where everything is security-tagged.
This is the end of my report. You'll next hear from me in the partially-tamed wilderness beyond the border, hopefully knee-deep in snow.