Of Water Parks and Texans

The Country Inn and Suites’ breakfast ended at the presumptuous time of 9:00am or 9:30, whatever it was, I woke up a mere half hour before the hotel would refuse to feed me mediocre semi-lukewarm, HFCS steeped fixins an’ such.  And fixin’s dey were.  CNN News was already on, and the only papers available were a San Marcos (small city) paper and USA today, so I opted for the middle-of-the-road news station others in the breakfast room were watching.  The fare available came as kind of a shock.

Biscuits and sausage patties.  Bagels, English muffins, cereal and milk, hardboiled eggs, egg disks – yeah like McDonald’s eggs but smaller, Florida’s Natural orange juice – heathens – etc. etc.  Other than my total horror over the sausage and egg Frisbee with biscuits suggestion and the presence of salsa ketchup packets, like, salsa in a ketchup packet, there wasn’t much to complain about.  Nor did I notice any mentally unsavory folk, but I planted those seeds in the introductory paragraph, just you wait for it.

Texans have the mistaken notion that Schlitterbahn is the it-place-to-be.  Ever been to Adventure Island in Tampa, or Rapids water park in West Palm, or the C.B. Smith Park in Pembroke Pines?  It’s the same fucking place, wrapped up in fake-German heritage (hence Schlitterbahn) and populated by children and unhappy adults.  There were people fucking reading.  Imagine going to Universal studios, letting your kids run around, and just camping on a bench by Jaws reading a John Grisham novel.  Natural springs and a river feeds the park’s demand for water, and that’s just about the only novel or interesting thing about the park and the river is the exit for some of the rides, and those rides were closed when I toured the park.

The heat in Texas is loathsome. Every blade of light that pierced the canopy of trees overhead cut like a laser. Also, I support their decision to have a lifeguard for the 3-foot deep pool bar as quite a few Mexican families were drinking while their gaggle of soft-skulled infants balanced delicately on laps and seats.  Not to say there’s anything special about Mexican’s drinking, or insinuating that they drink more, or that the identifier “they” carries any special weight for their nationality.  It’s just that I can’t imagine anyone other than tattooed, overweight, mustachioed, hoop ear ringed, grim folk sitting waist deep in water at a bar with their babies in their lap, drinking alcohol in – what I assume – is a pool whose ratio teeters on the edge of more urine than water. Call me a racist.  Don’t care.

There was much bumping into fats.  Only a few embaressingly large folk.  Children and adults alike seemed to having the time of their lives, running around and carrying filthy tubes to ride the rides and wait in line.

So we left at a decent hour.  There’s only so many times a grown man can wait an hour and a half to go down a slide, even if water propels you upwards and downwards and boring.  I hope my feet punished employee and vacationer alike with a plague of planters warts.  Caveat emptor, he who follows in my footsteps, they leave puddles and pools of death by dermatology.

Back at the hotel, it was impossible to find a decent German restaurant in San Marcos.  Surely, they have the deep-seated German tradition to have a theme park named in its honor, they must – of course – have some German restaurants.

They didn’t, but that’s a story of only good things.  Of the HEB and Publix, of hippies and good food, and of a deep-seated desire to not like Texas despite the evidence to the contrary.


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