my writing. It was for a story about the
lives of struggling people living in the
margins of society. It felt like, in the magi-
cal perfumed air of that swanky hotel bar
in Fort Worth, I’d somehow conjured my
own future.
Another time, at a hotel bar in Wash-
ington, D.C., a bartender saw my beard
and long hair and asked if I was a musi-
cian. I have absolutely no musical talent,
but for basically no reason I lied and
explained that yes, I was “not Mumford,
but one of the Sons.” I wasn’t too familiar
with the band’s catalog, so I was hoping
there wouldn’t be any follow-up ques-
tions. A few years later, at a different hotel
bar in a different city thousands of miles
away, I started talking with a stranger
who happened to be working security at
a concert the next night. He asked if I’d
be interested in free tickets. The band:
Mumford & Sons.
That’s the kind of magic I had in mind
when I set off on this trip. Three nights,
three cities, three hotel bars with that
behind-the-velvet-rope vibe—and three
chances to bond with my fellow travelers.
Trying to convince a man at Hotel Emma
not to escalate a domestic dispute is a
modest start.T
HE SECOND BAR I VISIT IS AT THE
Driskill Hotel in downtown Austin.
In the lounge, the head of a gigantic long-
horn steer hangs above the fireplace,
looking over a sea of soft leather couches,
a bronze tin-stamped ceiling, and an
8-foot-wide sculpture of an Old West
scene. The Driskill is probably the most
famous hotel in Texas. Opened in 1886,
the entire building has that unmistakable
frontier feeling—the barstools are even
covered in cowhide. One of the bartenders
informs me of the legend that the lobby16 texashighways.com
was the site of a gunfight between two
attorneys in the early 1900s.
Tonight the couches and tables are
filled with business travelers eating
dinner and watching basketball. There
are a few pockets of 30-somethings but
the crowd leans more toward older men in
slacks and polos. At the bar, a few couples
stop in for a pre-dinner drink. A woman
in a red sweater is sipping a martini and
reading The Awakening by Kate Chopin.
A man two seats down from her, wear-
ing jeans and boots, eyes the game on TV
while drinking his bourbon. A business
woman, scrolling through her phone, has
a glass of rosé and a dinner of Brussels
sprouts and french fries.
I notice several lamps around the bar
are made of old revolvers. The woman
with the Brussels sprouts and a couple in
their 40s sitting to her left all listen in as
one of the bartenders explains that theSeptember 21 - October 31
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