My dad is a third generation farmer. The kind of man that wakes up at 4:45 AM and goes to bed at 9 PM sharp. He can fix any kind of leak, tractor, rotted wheel, you name it. He was raised in Hereford, Texas way out on the western border between New Mexico and Texas. Back then, it was the kind of town where him and his younger siblings used to rip around the dirt roads on a teeny carriage drawn by mini horses. Where his brothers would crash motor cycles and Mustangs by the railroad track. Where the wind blows 40 MPH on a calm day and a big Friday night included a rootbeer at the A & W after the high school football game.

So, you can imagine my dad’s surprise when I said I was taking a trip out to West Texas. His response was something along the lines of, “To look at pastures and livestock?” Little did he know Marfa, which was once solely a ranching pit stop kind of town, has morphed into an artist’s haven. With art installations, curated boutiques and galleries, Marfa has become a Mecca for the great American roadtrip. Needless to say, when Sydney told me she had a wedding in Dallas and asked if I wanted to drive through Marfa with her, I was in.

We stayed at the infamous El Cosmico Nomadic Hotel in a glamping safari tent and drank micheladas under those big Texas skies. We watched for aliens, shopped for vintage scarves, and did our fair share of car karaoke and queso eating to last a life time.

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