Hootin' and Hollerin' into the Void

I grew up in Colorado, not far from the capital city of Denver. As a kid from the suburbs who could only experience the city through day-trips and references from the news and pop-culture, I developed a pseudo-understanding of what I believed Denver to be perceived as from the outside world. During my upbringing, I came to believe the city that was invited into the pantheon of “cool” western cities like San Francisco, Seattle, and Portland.

I never thought of it as a place that yearned for that association, though I suppose it had all the necessities of a modern place-to-be. As far as I could tell, those necessities were touchscreen elevators, sriracha aioli, and that wall art of angel wings that people use to take profile pictures.

I tended to feel silly whenever I would venture into the city - especially in the summer. Before Denver was supposedly known for being “cool”, it was the jumping-off point for the Rocky Mountains. Hundreds of miles of hike-able, skiable, explorable terrain lay to the west of Denver, happy to remind you of just how insignificant you are. It’s a unique and alluring feeling, but it isn’t found downtown. If the Denver I grew up near had some metaphysical representative, it would keep pointing at those peaks out west and say, “you sure that isn’t what you’re after?”.

I think about this idea of impressions that places leave us with as I get into my cab at George Bush Intercontinental Airport outside Houston, Texas. I’m here for work; there’s a conference in the city. It’s my first official business trip too. I’m clean-shaven and eager for my first real “Texas” thing.

I don’t need to look far. The roads are paved in such a way that every ten feet has a small gap in the road, like the Department of Infrastructure went through budget cuts in their caulking division. As the driver sets off, the thu-thump-thu-thump of the tires feels like the car is pretending to be a horse.

Hi-ho Scion, away!

For obvious reasons, bringing a full camera and lens kit anywhere when representing an employer isn’t the best of ideas. “I’m getting material for this travel and photography newsletter I run on the side” sure sounds a lot like “you’ve paid me to mess about while wearing your logo” to management. Luckily, we live in an age where the same machine that can take calls also makes photographs. Quick snaps between the hustle and bustle will do.

Wherever you’re from, there’s probably a few square blocks in your nearest city that’s made up of hotels and a convention center. You can squint and pretend you’re in Houston, Denver, New York City, Perth, or Cape Town because the characteristics are nearly identical everywhere. This same combination of buildings exists the world over, just with different architectural motifs.

At the center of it all is the convention center. Inconspicuous from the outside, yet unfathomably large inside. This bizarre bazaar with white walls and thin carpet becomes a destination for firms and organizations, societies and associations, chapters and branches. They all make the trip. Be sure to stop by their booths.

In the immediate vicinity of the central hub is a string of hotels. I absolutely adore corporate hotels. The aesthetic du jour and emotionally vacant rooms come together in a beautiful emptiness - the architectural equivalent of white noise. It’s such a manicured environment that dropping my suitcase on the bed feels like I’m splashing about in a zen garden. I’m not supposed to be here. No one is.

Space is limited downtown, so the only way to gather the most space for travelers is to build up, and up high. The ground is so last fiscal-year anyway. When this altitude is blended with the stasis of contemporary interior design, the result is just beautifully isolating. Nothing but the big blue looming on all sides while you surgically craft an out-of-office message. They are spaces that consistently encounter human experiences, yet they never reflect the impact a human has on its environment. Entering a hotel room for the first time must be the closest any of us can feel to being a ghost.

Finally, never far from the hotels are the concrete ribcages with the most important organ of any city: the parking lot. It’s like a little hotel for your car. The lights overhead show where there’s vacancy and we lunge for it like sharks to chum. For these next few hours, this spot is MINE.

As the day’s events conclude, I return to the idea of places and impressions they leave. Can you really understand a place in its entirety? I’m somewhat defeated; I’m still the same traveler trying extrapolate understanding from a subjective reputation and a subjective experience.

Perhaps that’s the point. Of course, everyone interacts with their surroundings differently, so there’s no real way to know how one’s own impression of a city compares to their neighbor, or the person in front of them in traffic. At least people sometimes signal to let you know where they’re going.

I return to the hotel elevator. The call button is on a touchscreen. I share the ride back to my floor with two dentists. I know they’re dentists because one turns to the other and asks, genuinely, if he has a favorite tooth.

My room overlooks the convention center. From this height, the building really does looks like an artificial organ, pumping little blood cells with lanyards throughout the capillaries of downtown Houston. The sun set while I sent some emails, and the big blue turned to turned black. That night, I sleep without moving.

Thank you for your time.

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