days 51-57—tex mess reset

When I die, scatter some of my ashes in The Continental Club, along Congress Avenue. Ideally, do it on a night when a violinist is performing. Let the strings carry me into the walls, where melodies linger and rhythm never settles.

After last week’s van troubles, the scarcity of good campsites near the city, and an unexpected cold front, we decided to stay in a hotel during our visit to Austin. It was a necessary reset. Charlie had a king-sized bed, and we had a chance to calm our frayed nerves.

Nearby, Congress Avenue stretched ahead, lined with bars, boutiques, and restaurants, each with its own appeal. If a local hadn’t recommended it to us, we might have mistaken The Continental Club for something entirely different. A strip club? A speakeasy? A place meant only for those who already knew.

The neon sign flickered above the red double doors, casting its glow onto what was, on any other night, a lively sidewalk. But tonight, the hum was beyond them.

Inside, Bob Ross played on a loop behind the bar, his soothing painting a curious contrast to the charged energy of the room. An older couple swayed together like they’d been coming here every night since they first met.

Bar stools sat in quiet rows, theater-style. While a long banquette hugged the right wall, perfectly positioned to catch the stage, washed in red light and curtains, and the exposed ceiling, which seemed to say, “This is who I am. Take it or leave it.”

The band—Tiger Alley—spun stories through strings and drums, layering melodies over a beat that dared your knees. The violin wailed, the drums pulsed, the guitar whispered, and the cello carried it all, a steady hand guiding us through the storm.

We sipped gin and tonics, letting the music work its way through us. This was the Austin I had imagined when people spoke of its legendary music scene—a place where, once the doors close, the outside world disappears. A room full of strangers, yet somehow, we all knew each other.

Outside, the city pulled us in, even as the cold tried to push us away. The cold front had sent locals into hibernation, leaving the streets unusually quiet. And in that stillness, Austin revealed itself.

We ran with Charlie along the empty trails of Lady Bird Lake and Barton Springs, where the dirt paths wove between towering cypress trees and the water shimmered just out of reach. She kept lunging toward it, paws planting in the gravel, every muscle straining with the desperate need to dive in. We laughed, held her back, and promised, soon.

Austin’s western shops captured us with their handcrafted boots, intricate jewelry, and enough cowboy hats to outfit a honky-tonk revival. Uncommon Objects took us back in time, with every shelf filled with oddities and treasured collections.

Dinner at Odd Duck was a slow unraveling of flavors, a meal we’ll talk about for years. We started with Herb Your Enthusiasm—a gin cocktail as sharp as its name—before tearing into cast-iron cheddar cornbread so good we ordered it twice: first as an appetizer, then as dessert. The fried broccoli and chicken skins were our attempt at balance, though indulgence clearly won. A braised goat pizza followed, then a wagyu strip so tender it melted in our mouths.

Mornings were spent over coffee at Jo’s and The Hideout, steam curling in the crisp air as we planned the day. Nights were for jazz in the basement of The Elephant Room, where the music felt like conversations among friends. San Jac greeted us with equal charm, though with different melodies, before we capped it all off with deep belly laughs at The Comedy Mothership.

Austin threw its best at us, and we allowed it to envelop us, hold us, and remind us of the reason behind our detour.

Onward and eastbound.