Earlier Wednesday morning, Brian and I drove through the city’s massive freeways to the University of Texas at Dallas, north of town in the suburb of Richardson. Once we arrived, he loaned me his car and I drove back across the unending concrete sprawl to Arlington. There, I toured the relatively new Cowboys Stadium, a $1.4 billion testament to the old cliché that ‘everything’s bigger in Texas.’ Our tour guide even pointed out that the word ‘largest’ was one we’d be hearing a lot as we set out. ‘The largest 1080p high-definition TV screen hangs from the largest free-standing arches in the world here at Cowboys Stadium,’ he twanged. ‘Mr. Jones wanted this to be both an indoor and outdoor facility, so we have the largest sliding glass doors at either end of the stadium.’ And so forth.
After touring the players’ and cheerleaders’ locker rooms (none of the locker owners were present, unfortunately) and having my photo taken on the blue star at midfield, I headed back to pick up Brian. He drove us to a neighborhood called Preston Hollow, which he admitted he’d never heard much about until last year, when word spread that George W. Bush was moving in. The homes in Preston Hollow were as extravagant as Brian had described. Many sat on multiple acres and were three or four stories high. Nearly all were shrouded by walls and shrubbery, and constructed of stone with ornate arches and fountains. Some had guards or intimidating dogs. The word ‘palace’ is a better descriptor than ‘home’ when discussing these structures. We passed one mansion with a basketball hoop and Brian said, ‘Word on the street is that’s Dirk’s house.’ ‘Nowitski?’ I replied. ‘Yep.’
We drove down a street called Park, where Brian had heard there were some exceptionally opulent abodes. We passed statues and private ponds and tried to peer between bushes. The better obscured the homes were, the more curious it made us about the lavishness that must be on the other side. ‘With these ones behind all the trees, you know they’re hiding something just retarded back there,’ Brian said. We traveled on to Highland Park, another wealthy neighborhood, and encountered Alex Rodriguez’s former dwelling along the way. Fronted by a man-made river and a patch of trees, it appeared to be some sort of replica of the White House.
Through all the gawking, Brian and I worked up an appetite. We dined at Snuffer’s, one of his favorite burger joints in town. As we finished the cheese fries, topped with a mountain of cheddar, bacon bits and green onions, I remarked that that dish was probably the least healthy thing I’ve eaten in my life. Brian, who had commented earlier that the dish was the only one in the world that causes fries to soak up rather than put out grease, was pleased with the impression the food made on me. According to him, the purposely bad action movie we saw to wrap up the night completed a trifecta of Dallasness for the day. ‘We gawked at rich people, ate greasy food and watched a crappy movie. Welcome to Dallas.’
The next day would be a look back at Dallas history and a preview of my upcoming travels. Sort of.
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