Last weekend, my little fledgling family made the tedious trip from DC to Atlanta to El Paso to a little art town in the middle of nowhere, Texas, that you've undoubtably heard of by now, especially for the Prada installation that was recently defaced. Marfa. Look it up. It's literally in the middle of nowhere. The flights were long, the drive was long, and it takes about a solid 400 hours (give or take) to get from the East Coast to this dusty and run down place.
We stayed at El Cosmico, basically a prettified campground, run by the same lady who owns Hotel San Jose and Hotel Saint Cecilia in Austin. That fact alone should tell you that it's pretty special. Tents, teepees, and trailers are available to rent there, and we got to stay in an adorable Vagabond, which was ideal because A) it was really cold at night and B) it came with its own tiny indoor bathroom, perfect for a spoiled city girl like me.
The desert landscape was impressively expansive underneath the infinite sky, the quiet was deafening, the city (town?) was crumbly and empty on one side of the tracks and interesting and beautiful on the other, the air was crisp and fresh and light, there was only one flashing stoplight, and the pizza and donuts were delicious.
It has to be straight up magic for me to have been so enamored with glamping after turbulent flights and an endless drive. There must be magic for someone who hates being dusty/dirty and is typically unimpressed by nature to have been awed into silent wonder by the distant hills and enormity of the horizon. Marfa is magical, in a quiet, creeping, heaviness that settles over you as you drive on the unimpressive road toward the single blinking stoplight. You don't know why, but suddenly, you're in love.
