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By Danny Lee Even in Texas, it’s not every town that boasts a colorful remuda of quarter-horse statues in its public spaces. “Is that horse waiting to cross the street?” Nick wanted to know, pointing to one of the statues at a downtown Amarillo, Texas street corner. Nick and Laura had joined me and my wife, Melissa, for a friends’ getaway to Amarillo, a historic cow-town that has transformed itself into a smiling and sun-washed fusion of the old and new West. It always rustles up just the right combination of culture and class, rust and dust to make happy short-term cowboys of the most citified dude. Download Ganapati Atharvashirsha By Suresh Wadkar. Like Nick, for example, who unlike Laura, Melissa and me is an East Coast tenderfoot.
The quarter-horse is a huge part of Amarillo's history. We spent the next few hours making our way through the shortgrass scrubland along the rim, our heads swimming with scents of honeysuckle and agarita bushes, crocuses and prickly cactus. Arts and shopping Nick was still wiping his eyes as we wandered through the newly redone Canyon Exploration building, a Greyhound terminal repurposed as an arts mecca. Amarillo’s well-regarded orchestra makes these old walls sing with Symphony Underground events, and we found a display of Mondrian-ish color-block paintings that made an interesting contrast with the 1949 Art Deco building’s curved lines.
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“Imagine the stories this old building has seen,” Laura said as we left, patting the Greyhound-blue porcelain bricks. “Kids getting on buses ’cause they want to see Dallas, Houston, the world. And then coming back years later when they decide what they really want to see is Amarillo again.” That’s Amarillo, too. We sorted through lost treasures at, where Melissa couldn’t resist a great price on a beautiful Frank Lloyd Wright Prairie School lamp.
Then we made a trip to the, goggling at blocky Winnebagos and teardrop pull-behinds—then Laura squealed and clambered into a ’76 Argosy. “My grandparents had one just like this!” she chirped, plopping herself down on the fold-away seats.
“Gosh, we covered a lot of miles in this thing on summer breaks,” she sighed and patted the plastic upholstery. Who could remind her that this wasn’t actually her family’s old camper? We eased back to the present with a couple of shopping stops at two of Amarillo’s many quirky shops specializing in rustic chic.
Laura grabbed a pair of Daisy Dukes and a Born and Raised Texas T-shirt from the, and Melissa couldn’t say no to a maroon Fireside Dreamin’ soft poncho from Small Town Gypsy. She said it reminded her of summer camp. Nick and I sat outside under a spreading live oak happily marinating in the musky floral scents drifting by on the Texas breeze. I told him the dry, dead looking stuff on the oak limbs was actually “Resurrection Fern,” that would spring to life after a rain in a time-lapse photography rush. For dinner we hit, a hipster-y place with the kind of down-home air you get when neither the staff nor the diners take themselves too seriously. “I’m a fan,” Laura moaned, reeling in a crusted trout served over roasted grapes and Brussels sprouts. I was busy with my own duck confit eggrolls, and Melissa and Nick were deep in a smoky Maal Wines Malbec that smoldered with notes of chocolate, cherry and licorice, but we all nodded enthusiastically.