Galveston, oh, Galveston....

Rise and shine.

Goodmorning Galveston.

What a beautiful start to a day. It is only a sleep ago since I saw you in your other colours, in the mystery of your night attire.

I have been on many seashores but this one has me transfixed in sheer fascination and

wonderment. It is not like anything else. It is an industrial seascape.

By day one can just make out silhouettes on the horizon.

By night as I stand on the little balcony of our Galveston Island Seascape condo looking out over the fine white lines of waves rolling in on an inky sea, I see sparkling lights. It’s a noisy sea, pushing hard to bring the tide up on the firm tan

sand. But there on the horizon, it is adorned by prettiness of flickering lights, like several little Christmas trees. Far out there in the deep blue yonder, they’re busy little cities - huge oil rig platforms working around the clock. On the eastern horizon there is such a line of night lights that at first I thought I was looking at houses along the coast - except that there is no land out there. The strings of amber and red lights stretching across the ocean are great big oil tankers waiting on anchor for their next load

It is quite the picture. It is an industrious sea such as I could never have imagined.

It is strangely exotic at the same time that it is disturbing. One can’t help worrying about the oil industry’s activities in the sea. Oil and water don’t mix, as we know from painful pasts.

I’ve seen no tar on the beach but our condo management warns that it frowns on people who don’t check their feet for tar before walking into the condos. So it must be there.

Certainly, while this is a magnificent hard sand walking beach, the water has more of a browny character and a little bit of strange foam.

Nonetheless, among the sea traffic I can see in the distance during the day are huge shrimp boats with their giant arms spread wide. And the Gulf shrimps are much prized, much eaten and, fresh from the boat, absolutely delicious.

I am not so sure about the little crabs people

seem to catch by night. People scamper about the beach with torches chasing and netting poor hapless creatures. Much excitement for little boys.

This grandmother just watches from her balcony, soaking in this strange and new environment. Making the most of it. Trying to understand it.

It is as different to our seaside world at Encounter Bay as the local

cigarette prices of $7.99 are to our $20 plus.

This little condo is not as swanky as the one we enjoyed at the Nautilus in Fort Walton Beach, Florida.

The beach is not as pristine and romantic.

The care for the dunes is as fastidious, though. They have protective signs and boardwalks

onto the sand. The one from this condo is protected by key code access because the beach boardwalk leads back into our palm-lined courtyard and the lovely central swimming pool.

Seagulls are few but grackles are common: very clever, interesting sleek-lined birds, males iridescent black and females brown. They are the predominant bird here - flocks of them on telegraph lines.

Oddly, they love to hang around under parked cars. But they also love to adorn trees and lawns. And what a vocabulary they have. From harsh crackles and coughs to the pretty tunes of song birds. They also seem to mimic sounds around them. I swear one was singing the

squeak of the swimming pool gate because it kept on and on closing with no one coming through - just a bird beside it. They sing like canaries and squawk like cockies. They are the lyre bird of America.

On the beach there are darling, fleet, scuttling little common sandpipers and another sand-foraging long-beaked sandpiper on steroids called a Willet.

The most prolific creature hereabouts is the dragonfly. Huge, acrobatic dragonflies with glinting blue abdomens and lovely orange thoraxes surround us all day long. They wheel around in front of the balcony, swooping and looping, hovering, jerking suddenly in flight as they catch an insect. Mosquitos are doomed around here, thanks to the ubiquity of these ancient and wonderful creatures.

This places offers up an entirely fresh aspect of American culture on many levels. Florida and Texas are not alike. And Galveston is not like

other parts of Texas.

The USA is a richly diverse and endlessly intriguing country. And that's an understatement.

Galveston on its long, lean, sandy southernmost island, seems popular as a weekender for the people of Houston. People have seashore holiday homes. They swarm down in

caravans and mobile homes. Or just piled into their vehicles for day trips. A lot of people here are rowdy Latinos and there are a lot of Mexican restaurants .

There is an historic section to Galveston proper, an historic area with splendid old buildings and tourists swarming everywhere in packs. It was not until I had seen a massive ship seemingly sailing across the street that I learned of Galveston’s role in the cruise line world. Galveston is a starting and visiting port for Carnival cruise ships. Hence the old port area abounds in tourist and gift stores, cafes, fudge shops and horse-drawn carriage rides.

I can’t resist one of the souvenir shops and score a terrific t-shirt for Bruce, some foolishness for the grandies and a garish tie-dye shoestring top for me.

We attempt to drive the length of the island. We can do so to the east where the island climaxes at a shipping pass where people are parked and sitting contentedly on their picnic chairs watching the steady flow of marine traffic going to and fro. It strikes me as a nice thing to be doing. I think the locals are having a very nice, easy life here.

A great sea wall and a broad boulevard called Seawall Drive runs along the foreshore of Galveston. The town was rebuilt behind a defined levee slope after a 1900 hurricane pretty much wiped the place out. The high road and the great seawall were a monumental endeavour of engineering and have proved their worth as an effective prevention against flooding through myriad great storms ever since.

Our condo is situated past the end of the sea wall. We’re on the beach in the marshy lowlands. The condos are on stilts and so is everything else around here.

Driving past Seascape to the west past Jamaica Beach we find that the island just goes on and on and on with lots more public beaches and high stilted holiday homes, some of them very lavish indeed. There are terrific swamp National Park reserves which explain the dragonfly population and the hearty birdlife.

Also the little marsh rabbits I am spotting around the condo. Darling, delicate miniature rabbits. We dispute at length just what these wee things could be. We have never seen such tiny, beautifully marked bunnies. They come out at dusk to nibble the lush lawn grass.

Our beautiful little fourth floor condo has sleeping accommodation for eight so Bruce swiftly commandeers the dark back bedroom as his man cave leaving me the bright sea view master bedroom. The bed is very high which places one with a sublime view of the sea even from a reclining pose. The first thing I see in the mornings is the mood of the sea.

I don’t swim in the sea but I note from watching the few who do that it seems shallow for a long way out. The condos have a superb, big swimming pool as its palm-lined centrepiece.

It has two hot tubs, a kiddie pool, showers and, always grackles, wonderful grackles. These birds are as prolific as they are fascinating. They love to hang out in parking lots and garages, perhaps picking insects off the cars. They are not pesky like pigeons or seagulls. They don't seem to scavenge. They do their own thing, individually and in flocks. At dusk, they gather and do flock flights, landing on rooftops in orderly rows or along the telegraph wires. We’re endlessly fascinated by them.

We have our own boardwalk which, in a high bridge over the protected sand dunes, provides a ramp down to the beach. It has its own aesthetic with that sea-weathered silvery timber lines.

The longer we are here, the more we like this place.

People bring their cars onto the beaches at the public access areas further down the beach.

They park in fastidiously neat rows. Most Texans drive bloody great utes so they can and do pack a lot for a picnic. A lot! They open out the trays of their trucks to become a part of their camp sites. They unpack umbrellas and shade tents and chairs and rugs and towels and BBQs. They bring shovels and dig out sandcastles. The bring bikes to ride and fishing rods to cast. They fly kites. They light fires. And they eat and eat. They come as packs of friends parked together or in huge, noisy and happy Latino families. Fat mommas and poppas sprawl in shameless food comas in their truckside luxury camp chairs beside their large, heavy dogs. Their kids play on in the sunshine. It is all rather charming.

We scrutinise it all in long brisk walks on that super-hard tan sand. We note that we are about the only people to use the beach for long walks. The locals strictly set up camp and sit or play right there. Some people choose to sit in chairs in the shallows gazing seawards.

Ironic because this is probably one of the best walking beaches in the world.

We are happy cooking in the condo and enjoying the sea view, the plentiful passing pelicans, sometimes in high V formations and sometimes skimming the sea. They are so different from ours - smaller, brown, shorter necked. But they are wonderful to watch. Unlike our big whites which swim and skim to fish, these brown pelis can dive. I spend a lot of time leaning on the balcony rail admiring them. I can never get too much of pelicans.

We eat out only once at Landry’s on Seawall Boulevard.

We are given a splendid table on the verandah where we can see the beach and the lifeguard and the softly advancing hues of dusk.

The food is fabulous. Charcoal-grilled plump local shrimp for starters and oh, my, aren’t chefs wonderful creatures! This one has invented a dish called Applejack Sea Bass - Granny Smith apples, dried cherries and shallots with bourbon apple reduction and wild rice. Sitting here in the sea air, nothing else exists as I sigh and swoon my way through this interesting piece of culinary beauty. Apples and fish. Who would have thought it. Of course it also helps that the fish is fresh from the sea. This will rate among my top meals in the US, I am sure. Bruce is not impressed. He is not fond of fruit with meat, any type of meat. His loss.

Galveston is another case of, if we had known how nice it was we might have booked a few days longer. But, says Bruce, we are on a schedule to get back to Australia. We can’t keep doing this indefinitely. We have to keep moving.

And so it is another fond farewell as we chug off into the sunset.

The rough road to Galveston

Goodbye Louisiana.

Lake Charles is not famous as a tourist destination but it can brag at least one well-run travellers’ hotel which turns an overnighter into resort stop. Thus, with excellent free breakfast and a gorgeous swim in an open-air pool where an exquisite little green frog dwells in the towel box, we left the Marriott Courtyard in our loaded car and hit the road in fine fettle and high spirits, full of curiosity about what next we will find on the road.

We’ve been going for four of our six months. We are not a bit tired of the adventure. It has been endlessly surprising and enriching, the cross-country drives far more entertaining than we ever could have imagined.

And, despite the dire warnings of certain of our friends about the perils of being confined in a car for all these weeks on end, we are still smiling. Truly.

Lake Charles has struck us as a serene, uncluttered city until we head for the amazing inverted V-shaped bridge whereupon a broken-down truck has caused a massive traffic jam.

As we crawl up the steep bridge, we get a good look at the scale of activity around Lake Charles and it is simply staggering. Empires of petroleum refineries stretch out beyond the bridge. Oh, my. Oh, my. It takes the breath away. Immense does not begin to describe the vista of steaming chimneys, pipes and tanks.

Somehow, I am not surprised to see an exit sign pointing to a place called Sulphur.

The road is vile. Rough and worn with overuse, it makes for a rutted and rattling ride. As if to make up for it, it sports a beautiful broad median which is nothing less than a glory of healthy pampas grass.

The route through this industrial heartland is heavily populated. Endless chain hotels. Then more chain hotels. Petroleum must attract a lot of visitors or temporary workers.

We’re not at the Texas border yet according to Google Maps. It is about 2 miles away. But a big, cheeky sign predicts: We love Texas.

The official Texas state line comes in the middle of the bridge over the Sabine River. Siri Google chips in and bids us an Aussie-accented welcome to Texas. We cheer and welcome each other.

The road is awful. Rough and messy. Lots of roadworks. Jostling traffic. Trucks, trucks. Good grief, this complete white-knuckle chaos is called the Martin Luther King Junior Drive.

As the road improves, it becomes a wonderland of tall pole advertisements. They are a cultural revelation in themselves:

A Little Big Gaudy Boutique

Crane & Rigger Certificates

Dentures $395

Hurt in a Truck Accident? We have a lawyer.

Here’s a newie.

Jackpot. Sell us your car. (Texasdirectoauto.com)

No Bluffing. Sell us your car (Texasdirectoauto.com)

Every mile, another one.

When the Chips are Down. Sell us your car. (Texasdirectoauto.com)

Talk about a hard sell, er, buy. We ponder various scenarios of people deciding to sell their car while hurtling down a highway. We decide we could never hitch-hike with all our luggage - and anyway our fabulous car renters, Alamo, might just want their olive green Rogue back.

In between car signs and amid scrubby forests and grassy fields, other odd signs line the road.

Keep Texas Beaverish. Huh?

Texas is Whataburger state. Hmm. OK.

We pass Cow Bayou and the town of Vidor and, er, are you kidding, Truckville?

It’s a nasty pale road and the traffic is growing yet more intense and fierce. We get stuck behind a rubbish truck putting out such a rank and putrid wake of stench that we gag. Get past it. Get past it. Not so easy. It is barrelling along at 70mph.

So we dip off at a services exit, breathe deeply, open the windows, breathe some more, and find a Cracker Barrel family restaurant and store for lunch.

Soothingly, it has rocking chairs on a long porch. It is full of quirky memorabilia. I find myself sitting beside a 1924 class photo of commercial studies graduates. Look at all those perfect marcel waves.

The waiter is a gruff old guy who should have retired years ago. Kids are screaming.

The menu is down home. So is the clientele. We order clam chowder and salad. They are delicious.

Siri Google guides us neatly around a detour back to 10W.

The sky is big and cloudy over what is now a rural landscape. It’s 91 deg. F outside.

The road improves as we pass Beaumont, Texas. Flat landscape, ploughed fields, young crops.

10-acre ranchettes for sale.

Hay fields.

Scruffy grassland.

Plains. Rice fields, scruffy grass, trees. Turtle Bayou, Crawfish Ranch Restaurant. Gator Junction. A row of portaloos at the roadside. Hmm. Lovely.

We’re stuck behind a truck towing a smallish tank. Bruce says the small tank means it is carrying a heavy liquid. He suggests sulphuric acid, carbon tetrachloride, or bromine. We check the placard number. Sulphuric acid, eeek. Put your foot down, Bruce. As we pull away Bruce remarks rather proudly that the production and use of sulphuric acid is an excellent single measure of the industrial capacity of a nation.

Trinity River. Huge, glorious swamplands, great expanses of swamp with grazing birds and then over the Lost and Old River. What a name. We allow our imaginations to play with it.

We swing onto Texas 146 south and are heading past big, ugly commercial stretches with churches and liquor stores side-by-side, and into the burbs of mighty Houston.

The skyline is all oil refineries.

Traffic lights stop us. Bright, white rings of light flash around the red stop lights. Very fancy.

Of course we pass mini storage. It would not be America without punctuation marks of mini storage. I love it. Why can’t I ever get a good snap of one?

There’s a Masonic lodge and a sprawl of downmarket sandy-brown coloured suburbs. The road is now big and wide. The Rogue ratchets along its expansion joints. It’s an uncomfortable percussion which goes through the body. Oh, how I hate the expansion joint roads.

Slightly classier brown suburbs emerge and oh, here comes an utterly fabulous bridge.

A mighty, towering, elegant cable-stayed bridge. Massive. We pass over it sighing with admiration.

And all around us now are oil refineries.

We’ve come to the Port of Houston. Cranes and more refineries. Refineries as far as the eye can see. I am gasping at the scale of this. I can’t believe it.

A long, long, long tanker train sits on the rail lines parallel to the road out there.

Hotels are dotted down the highway.

Suddenly, tucked behind a line of huge posturing high-voltage power pylons, there’s a very salubrious, nay positively posh suburb lush with palm trees. What incongruity. My jaw has dropped.

Roadside sign: Guns and Porn.

Another one: Bed Bug Kits. What the..? Yes I did not read it wrong. Truly. They’re offering DIY Bed Bugs kits. They kill roaches, too.

And now, amid Wells Fargo, the Snow Cone Express, One-stop Smokes Shop and Jet Ski Rentals, we are stuck in a traffic jam. Ah, busy America.

That is Texas City over there, says Bruce. That is the site of the worst industrial accident in American history. It was in 1947. A French ship carrying ammonium nitrate fertiliser exploded after the cargo had become too hot on the dock. The explosion killed all the crew and wiped out everything in the vicinity and had a domino effect on other ships loaded with ammonium nitrate. The explosions went on. The place was pretty much flattened. Hundreds were killed and thousands injured. Texas City looks as if it is powering away today.

Indeed, this whole area is powering away Those stately pylons are converging to create a stunning high-rise latticework of wires. There’s the power plant over there.

And here’s another magnificent

bridge, one which curves up and crosses the water in a gracious undulation.

Beyond it are more and yet more oil refineries and who knows what they all are. The intensive industry stretches as far as the eye can see. It is gob-smacking.

Heavens. now we pass a roadside golf course. And next to it, wasteland.

Those pylons go on and on.

We follow them.

They cross canals and salt marshes. We become aware of the lovely scent of petrochemicals.

But here is the sea.

There are fancy homes on the shore. And here we go over another mighty, beautifully designed and engineered bridge. A whopper. More holiday homes lining the shores on the other side which turns out to be Galveston Island - a very long and thin island of sand hills and marshes and a very important port.

Galveston, oh, Galveston. You are our chosen destination.