You Probably Can't Tell, But I Am Thankful.

Del Rio was the first place we lived after getting married. It was Paul's first assignment in the Air Force, meaning it was my first assignment as an Air Force wife. We had a small backyard wedding with just our immediate families and one aunt and two grandmas. Then we packed up the U-Haul and started the five day trek from Virginia to Texas. 

We spent the first two days in Charleston, South Carolina. We called it our “mini-moon.” We had sex a few times and ate a lot of really good ice cream. Our next stop was Pensacola, Florida, where we got free massages at his aunt and uncle’s spa, a much-needed wedding gift. 

The last two days were brutal. Paul planned a fun night in Galveston Island, but we underestimated how long it would take to get there and ended up arriving way too late. He wanted us to see the ferris wheel, because he proposed on a ferris wheel, but we didn’t get the chance. 

The drive from Galveston Island to Del Rio was a whole lot of nothing. I already had low expectations of Texas. All I knew is that it was hot and flat and that people from Texas loved Texas way too much. So far my expectations were correct. We drove through miles and miles of desert. I remember I saw a tumbleweed and a Roadrunner for the first time, and I honestly thought both of those things were fake. Then we hit San Antonio, and every single overpass had the state of Texas carved into the side of it. Paul and I still tell each other, “I love you more than Texas loves Texas.”

From San Antonio, it’s a straight shot on US-90 until you hit Del Rio. You go through a few towns on the way, most as small if not smaller than Del Rio. It is apparently one of the most dangerous roads in Texas, especially at night. There are no street lights and a million deer. The speed limit is 75, but even the cops go 90. There are signs warning you not to pick up hitchhikers because they could be escaping inmates. And if you happen to get stopped by the train, you can watch migrants crawl out of the brush and climb on top of the train for a free lift to who knows where. 

When people ask me where Del Rio is, I tell them it’s basically Mexico. Because it’s basically Mexico. It is three hours to the nearest Target, but only ten minutes from the border of Acuna. Sometimes I will be sitting in my living room, and I’ll get a notification on my phone saying, “Welcome to Mexico!” I’ve only been a few times, twice with the church and once with a friend to get our nails done. 

There’s a huge lake in Del Rio called Lake Amistad. Apparently there are international bass fishing competitions there and it’s a pretty big deal. We share it with Mexico, so you have to be careful when you’re out boating to not cross over too far. Most people say the lake is the one redeeming factor in Del Rio, but I’m not so sure. I mean, it’s nice. The water is blue and it is pretty stunning to see such a vast body of water in the middle of a desert, but it’s all rock and no shade. There’s no good place to set a lawn chair unless you somehow wedge the legs perfectly between two boulders. And laying a towel down is entirely out of the question. The only source of shade over the entire lake is under a bridge, so you can enjoy a little shade and the sweet sounds of heavy traffic reverberating off the bridge legs. When people say that Lake Amistad is the prettiest lake they’ve ever seen, I question if they’ve ever seen another lake. 

All of Del Rio is like that. People will recommend a restaurant and say, “Oh, they have the best burgers ever.” So I go to the restaurant expecting the best burgers ever, only to have a highly average, if not disappointing, burger. And I think, “Why would they say these are the best burgers ever?” But then I’m in Del Rio for a month, three months, six months, and someone comes to visit and I say, “Oh, we have to go to this restaurant. They have the best burgers ever.” But then I leave Del Rio for even just a day and have any other burger out there, and I’m brought back to reality. The burgers were crap, but this whole time I had nothing else to compare them to.

Del Rio tends to make people cold, which is ironic because it’s triple digits most of the year. It’s too a lot of things. Too hot. Too flat. Too far away. Too small. The first time Paul drove me to Lake Amistad and I looked out the car window to see endless sky and a desert covered in Texas Sage, I said to him, “Ya know, there’s something uniquely beautiful about this place.” But just the other week, I texted my mom, “I know this sounds mean, but Del Rio is just objectively ugly.”

A month into moving to Del Rio, we got a dog. My husband worked extremely long hours as a pilot instructor, and I needed a companion. People say when you move to Del Rio you either get a boat, a dog, or a baby. We got two dogs and two babies. 

***Incomplete***

I would love critique on the story so far and where to take it! I do want to eventually incorporate things about Del Rio I am very thankful for. We move from Del Rio in October, and I wrote in my journal, "Del Rio, you are a hot pile of dirt, but you'll always be our first home." This is kind of the vibe I'm hoping to end up with. Any feedback is appreciated!