Marfa, Texas.

Marfa, Texas, is a quaint, on the verge of being deserted, town on the outskirts of Texas, known for its whimsicality and art scene. (Notable for: the Prada store in the middle of the desert.) It’s hidden somewhere in the horizon line until your ETA reaches 2 minutes away (before then, it’s bare desert and flat in every direction). It appears out of the void. Click your heels three times. Voila.

I caught a glimpse on a Thursday in early May when my friends and I took a day trip on the way to Big Bend National Park. After our six-hour drive, we parked at our Airbnb. There wasn't another soul around except the occasional dog barking in the distance (and the sun). Eclectic was an understatement; every square inch of the walls was covered with knick-knacks and paintings. 

We were the only group walking down the main street as we made our way the few blocks to our dinner spot. A couple of trucks whiz by. It was the type of stillness that, if there were any wind, tumbleweeds would be rolling around. There wasn’t even a breeze. I began to wonder if everyone was hiding from something we didn’t know about. 

After dinner, we head down the block to a small saloon. Our performative cowgirl boots puttering through the dirt: wood panelling, a disco ball, and a photobooth out-of-order. We’re the only ones there, of course. However, our bartender is friendly. Over time, a group enters and sits in the back, while another lady sits by herself at the end and scribbles in her journal. After a drink or two, I use my anxiously prepared Notes app itinerary to guide us to the next must-see bar. Closed. We retrace our steps and go to our final destination of the night – another quiet bar. At least the lights are on this time. A couple more groups are sprinkled throughout the venue, though everyone keeps to themselves. We sit at a table trying to come to terms with where we are. We’re almost unsure if it’s real - if we’re real. Can the people around us even see us? Or are we flies on the wall in a different realm, simply peering through? 

A lady invites herself to our table and sits. Her-- the French woman with the journal at the bar from eons ago. She hands my friends her sunglasses. “You left these at the saloon earlier. The bartender said y’all would end up here. I was heading here anyway.” 

In any other place, being followed to your next-next location would be terrifying. Here, it was comforting. It was communal. It was kind. We learn that she’s also based out of Austin, a writer, and uses Marfa as her nomadic retreat. She’s been a little here and a little there. She’s done a little this, a little that. It seems that’s what everyone here does. Everyone seems temporary. 

We talk about our hopes to live, and she shares her stories of that same desire. About how she longed for the same thing, and that in Marfa, the New Year's Eve prior, she was given advice, and this was her way of sharing it onward.

Then, a dog begins to sniff my leg. The woman fades into the night, and now we’re speaking to an older man with his medium-sized cattle dog. He begins prophesying about his epiphanies (while promoting his website) that dogs aren’t meant to be domesticated and that humans have no right over a dog. He explains that dogs and humans are able to communicate and understand each other deeper than we’re made to believe. For what it’s worth, it seemed his dog did actually understand what he was saying. 

By now it’s midnight, the lights shine on. We walk home. In the morning, the town is bustling a bit more. I pieced together that the town has a readable pulse, but only Fridays through Sundays. We see our original bartender at the brunch spot with their partner. We smile and wave. Then, we refill our gas, grab some camping groceries, and head on.

Initially, during my visit, I was desperate to leave. It almost felt too full of desperation. At our dinner restaurant, I felt the wealth leak through the air. The couple to our left, dressed in expensive distressed casual, discussed surgery procedures beyond my vocabulary and tax bracket. Every menu looked to be $30 a plate. The privilege to afford artistic and nomadic retreats. You could feel it in the coffee shop the morning we left. An unsettling feeling of everyone trying hard with their outfits, trying hard to come across as the humblest. But can I blame them? Our cowgirl boots collect dust, so people would know we cared enough to put in the effort to fit into the aesthetic just right.

But even after months, I couldn't stop thinking about it. There was something mysterious about Marfa's sleepiness that made me want to go back. Maybe it'd be more forgiving? I'd be more forgiving?

In Marfa, I loved that I briefly met characters who were so unique that I wouldn’t have been able to make them up on my own. There are so many people dealing with the same confusion and opting for isolation in hopes of finding their answer. My struggles and woes seemed so much smaller. 

Is it still existing if no one is around to watch and perceive you? 

As you walk down the main street, you don't make eye contact with the trucks staring at you in your short skirt; you keep walking forward. Us weekenders all trying hard to be the most humble, but at least we're trying. Visiting on a Thursday, I realized there was so much creativity and life vibrating within the walls, but hidden around the corners. In the shadows and quiet, there is still noise. And there are stories everywhere if you go and look for them, but only if you’re open to receiving them.