Texas looks different than I imagined, and I saw more cowboy hats at the airport in Miami than here in Houston, where we are waiting for our luggage. I bought another suitcase and am now unsure what the new suitcase looks like. Sonali recognizes it and laughs at me.
Houston is a great city to drive in, says our Uber driver. Here, the highway runs right through the city, he says and accelerates. The sun is just setting, a flock of birds flying against the light.
We're going for another walk. Once again, it makes no sense and is no fun at all. It's way too hot, too loud, and there's nothing to see. I take a few photos of neon liquor store signs; otherwise, there's nothing here but heat-reflecting concrete.
Then suddenly, a green street and dream houses. I don't know if this is the American dream or the universal desire for property and nice cafes within walking distance. What brought us here is my desire to search for treasures in thrift store halls.
Houston is underrated as a vintage city. Later, I'll buy a new suitcase to store my Goodwill finds. Three suits, Brooks Brothers, Calvin Klein, and Oscar de la Renta. Shirts, polos, and ties. I keep trying on cowboy boots, but none of them fit me, even though they're actually my size. Later, at the bar, I get to know everyone there. Whenever I introduce myself, I say: I am Cowboy Cinderella. It's not until the next morning that I realize the joke doesn't make sense, because Cinderella's shoe fits. Everyone laughed anyway.
At night, I dream of success and wealth. I wake up before sunrise. I stare out of the window, dawn outside, my stomach full of meat.
Then it's morning and a brass band from Bavaria is playing in front of us. There's beer again, from Germany. It's German Unity Day. Speeches are made and Sonali and I have problems with Germany. We go to bed early, no dreams, thinking about Germany before falling asleep.