In Texas, I rented my own apartment. Six hundred and fifty square feet, six hundred and five dollars a month. There were two pools, and I swam in them from April to October. In Texas, I knew more single men than I knew single women. In Texas, I reneged on a plan to stay single well into my thirties. In Texas, I first drove a car alone, almost an entire mile. I was so terrified that when I reached my destination–the bright, clean grocery store–I started to cry. In Texas, I put air in my tires and in Texas, there aren’t always sidewalks. In Texas, I lived a half hour from the friend who grew up around the corner in Whitestone. In Texas, I lived two hours from the friend who grew up down the bus line in Bayside. In Texas I saw a cul-de-sac, sat in houses that, as of a year ago, had been dirt holes. I went to my first hockey game in Texas. I went to see the Astros play 5 times and I cheered against them every time; it just worked out that way. I was kissed on the Jumbo-tron in front of the former President. In Texas, you cannot be anonymous. You go out hoping to see no one and you will see everyone.  In Texas, my neighbor died and it was days (weeks, I mean–weeks) before she was discovered. I only found out because I heard the maintenance men debating her gender. They had come to evict her for not having paid rent. In Texas, another neighbor keyed my car and left an anonymous note in the default font, in careful English. In Texas, we call roaches “palmetto bugs” and rather than live in your walls, they crawl under your door. The cat would eat the bugs and spit out the legs for us to find. The other cat would lick the bed skirt when she wanted attention. In Texas we paid good money to eat grasshoppers and paid less money to eat plates brimming with food because yes, everything’s bigger. The rainstorms. The churches. The highways, the cars. My cousins wanted to go to “a real ranch,” so I drove an hour with one of them behind the wheel and roped wooden cattle figurines and watched steers bathe and heard a black cowboy play the guitar before hitting up the gift shop with the other visitors. In Texas, you can be from somewhere else, but you have to say you got here as soon as you could. You can be from New York, but you have to try harder. I tried hard; not too hard. It’s okay to say “Yankee” in Texas, and that’s what I am. My accent is Yankee. My hair is Yankee. My bumper sticker is Yankee. You’ll see it when you pass me, going the speed limit in the right lane. I’m leaving one crazy Rick for another. The first time it snows, like a real Texan, I will probably take pictures.