Waking once more at
our miserable Dallas Airbnb, we cook a hearty breakfast of bacon and eggs. I
had forgotten how much I abhor air mattresses. I can’t say that any of us slept
soundly, comfortably, or well, except maybe Barkley back at his house in
Indiana. The noise of the air pumps starting up, then clattering to a halt,
plus the serious discomfort of the mattress had us up most of the night. Following
breakfast, we wash up and leave quickly, glad to be shut of the place. And
Airbnb asks for a review. We delegate this chore to Bloodroot, hoping he can
approach this task with more discretion than I can summon at the moment as I
continue to bitch.
Today we plan to
drive five hours from Dallas to Lubbock. Bloodroot interjects, “Mom, Dad, the
Kimbell Museum in Fort Worth, Texas has a wonderful traveling exhibit of samurai
armor. I saw this show when I lived in Paris. It’s fantastic. I could see it
twenty times! Also, Fort Worth lies one hour west of Dallas, on the way.
Traveling there first will knock an hour off of our drive later today.”
All animals and
Pearl in agreement, Bear steers Pearl around the outer perimeter of Dallas,
catches I-30 and cruises over to the Kimbell Art Museum. Bear immediately
approves of the museum’s architecture, split into two buildings, with parking
underground. The buildings look mid-century modern although built much later. The
original Kahn building (1972, named for the architect) has multiple rounded glass
roofs that resemble a greenhouse. Piano (2013, an Italian architect) designed his
building to blend seamlessly with the earlier, yet added environmental
sensibilities through material choice and by maximizing the use of natural
light. This building fits snugly into the land, one story aboveground,
mirroring the Kahn’s height, with a colonnaded pavilion and over-hanging glass eaves.
After parking
Pearl underground, we use the handy elevator to ascend to museum level. We enter
and pay at the Piano building, finding the traveling samurai armor collection
to the left of the lobby. Viewed from the foyer, the armor looks like creations
in bamboo. Upon closer examination, we find the armor comprised of myriad small
half-inch to two-inch lacquered iron pieces sewn together. The design provides
maximum protection while retaining vitally important flexibility. How much of
someone’s life would be consumed making even one set of armor?
The armor covered
every bit of a warrior’s body with chest pieces, shin guards and leggings. As
the samurai covered and guarded their faces too, intricate helmets sprout grand
dragons or other scary things. The helmets have a hole beneath the chin to
release sweat. Although indispensable, the armor must have been bloody hot.
The military
samurai class devoted their lives to the art of war, perfecting their use of
arrows, swords, spears and, in time, guns. The Japanese quickly copied the Portuguese
match lock rifle, and guns eventually played an important role in their feudal
wars. In response, armor evolved plates—better for deflecting bullets. Despite
all the advances in firearms, proficiency in archery remained important to
showcase an individual’s warrior aptitude.
Samurai also
armored their horses. I find the dragons’ heads on the horse face masks
compelling. This armor, also comprised of a multitude of small iron bits, shows
as much care in its creation as the human armor. A mounted warrior without his
trusty steed isn’t worth much, eh? Imagine teaching a horse, your military
partner, to fight covered in all that hot stuff.
The Samurai Armor show
comes to the DAM (Denver Art Museum) in March 2016.
Following the
armor, we visit the permanent collection, first in the Piano building. The
museum has adopted a refreshingly minimalist tack, displaying only one or two
items per era or culture and then moving on. We see a very good old Greek vase
featuring the Goddess Nike, and some Egyptian pieces, one still bearing ancient
paint. We find viewing fewer objects far easier than the three days we once
spent in the Louvre.
We cross over to
the Kahn building which holds European art after 1800. We enjoy green
Impressionist paintings (Monets), a few
Picassos, and my favorite, a very cool Van Gogh with a yellow sky, blue and
brown houses, and green vegetation with stunning red spots. That boy was such a
master of color.
The Kahn building
also houses the Museum Café, where we buy small lunch plates of excellent food,
slowly savoring our delicious relaxing lunch. Many museums now lease their
restaurants to people having appropriate culinary expertise as opposed to art
history skills. The Kimbell correctly considers the fare good enough to sell the
restaurant cookbook in the gift shop. On our way out, we gaze at the book, but
decline, buying only a coffee mug and a large coffee table book depicting the
samurai armor.
Still having far
to travel today, we roll back to the parking garage, reunite with Pearl and
drive away around 2:30.
We pick up I-30
again which quickly melds into I-20. Westward ho! We head for Abilene, Lubbock
and our proverbial home in the west. Casting a sideways glance at my husband, I
note that as his beard grows, Keith more and more resembles one of his rugged
Scottish ancestors from the Hebrides. Once he would have piloted a sailing ship
in the North Atlantic; now he guides Pearl across the North American plains.
During the
afternoon, the land changes throughout our four-hour excursion.
First we see
fields newly plowed—field after field after field—awaiting cotton seed. Or
perhaps already impregnated, seeds holding their breath, waiting for the sun to
warm the land before sprouting out of brown-red earth. The few trees on our
route haven’t yet shed winter’s gray coat to leaf out and greet the glory of spring.
The land dries and
rises morphing into vast cattle ranches and mesas. Passing by Abilene, we
listen to Dave Alvin sing Abilene. Bloodroot
and I sing along loudly, irritating Bear.
Further west, the earth
becomes too dry for cattle. Slowly desert scrub conquers the land, littered
with hundreds of oil wells. Once again, we drive through a petrochemical haze.
Are we in Texas or Louisiana?
The windmill farms
appear. Some of the tall white windmills spin, some stand silently awaiting
digital orders.
Fifty miles past
Abilene, we exit the freeway, turning northwest toward Lubbock. We again pass
freshly plowed, newly seeded fields, followed by wind farms on the drier land,
spotted with cattle ranches and long thin mesas. We see oil wells again. Then,
once again, we return to newly plowed cotton fields. The world looks flat as
far as the eye can see.
Pulling into town
at dusk, we seek tonight’s Airbnb. Back and forth, up and down we drive. Although
spread out, Lubbock is not a big place, but spaciness and road weariness hinder
our search. Finally, as full night descends, we find our quarry. The Airbnb, a
house among others on an unremarkable street, sports nothing to guide us save
its address.
Grateful for this
lovely little place, the boys unload Pearl, bringing in suitcases and food. Our
Airbnb host Shawn acquired a former home for unwed mothers, which he updates as
funds allow. The atmosphere is more hostel-like than anywhere we have stayed thus
far during our adventure. We have our own bathroom and bedroom but share a
kitchen.
Shawn takes in “strays,”
much as Bear accuses me of doing. He gives second chances to people down and
out, provided that they wish to go to seminary in Lubbock, a city with numerous
evangelical Christian religious schools.
Working together
(Shawn, his protégé John, Bear, Bloodroot and I) we create a yummy communal
dinner. I chop vegetables as my contribution to the stir fry. We talk over
dinner. The boys clean up. Shawn and John retire to watch TV, sinful or not,
while we head for bed.
