In a city made up of many cities, spread out, like tiny countries, ascribing their influence is a lot like trekking through a tiny country of your own.
Montrose was unofficially codified as the nexus of queer life in Houston. If you held a map to the wall, I could tell you how we came to be on those streets.
There will be as many different iterations of this storm, and the ones to come, as there are Houstonians. And we have to hear them—they’re what will determine our map for the next one.
It isn’t that we sought to separate the “real world” from the matches—just that, for a time, we had something else to think about.
On watching the World Cup in spite of everything, and finding camaraderie with friends and strangers alike.
As in any other sport, the point is the narrative—but no other sport magnifies its lore in the same way as soccer.
In Houston, as with everywhere else, the arts serve as tiny lifeboats—and sometimes, if we’re lucky, we all find ourselves floating together.
If traditions like the rodeo can accommodate Houston’s diversity, whole new traditions will be formed—leaving us with something even better.
We’d made a connection across tables, generations, tongues, our own tiny blip of transcendence. Holiness in the noodle bar.