Galveston

It's surreal to read stories and see pictures of the devastation in an area that's close to a second home for me.

One of my closest friends has lived all over the Galveston-Houston area for the last 15 years, and usually about once or twice a year (more or less) I've tried to make it down to see her. And that's not including the various trips I took to the region as a kid and in college.

Galveston is a tourist trap as tourist trappy as it gets in Texas. The beach is Galveston, and practically everything worth seeing is on the beach. It was a living memorial to Margaritaville. The construction of some buildings, needless to say, left much to be desired.

Now it's gone. The beach houses, the tiny gift shops perched at the end of long piers, the rows of restaurants, the hotels, apartment complexes, and so on. The pictures look like an alien landscape, not the Galveston I knew.

These were beaches I had just been on in April, about a month after my father died.

"You need to come down here," Gina (not her name) said. "You need a break."

She was right. The death of my father, whom I'd been with every day (or every other day) for months had hit me very hard. Not hard the way my mother's death had. My father had always been a larger-than-life figure, even as he'd aged and shrunk. Fear and worry over his deteriorating health had left me obsessed and fatigued. Now that he was gone, there was a gigantic hole in both my heart and my routine, and the results hadn't been pretty.

"Ok," I said. "I'll bring my youngest daughter. She doesn't remember Galveston. She was just a baby the last time I brought her."

Most of my trips to Galveston were girls weekends, time away from hubby and kids, time to pretend for two days that I was just me, no strings or other appellations attached, free to sleep in, eat what I wanted, snoop through the shops, catch up on gossip, and generally behave like Gina and I had since college. Of course, about 24 hours after leaving home, I could always feel the anxiety and longing for my family rising in me because, after all, I am no longer just me.

This time, I would take the youngest child with me in a mother-daughter adventure that would build some memories and, perhaps take my mind off my grief, if only for a few hours.

Gina doesn't live on the beach in Galveston anymore, like she did 15 years ago, in a tiny apartment on the seawall. These days, she owns a beautiful home in Clear Lake, an upscale neighborhood in Houston close to NASA. She's executive director of what I'd call a "green group," which encourages builders and city planners to buy and use environmentally friendly technology for their projects.

We stayed up late the night I got there, gossiping and drinking coffee while my daughter fell asleep watching Alvin and the Chipmunks. Even so, we were up bright and early to go to the beach Saturday morning.

Even in April, Galveston is warm and sunny, requiring sunscreen and hats. As we drove through the palm tree-lined streets, Gina fills me in on all the local gossip, political machinations, and government soap operas which are so much a part of any city. We drive around, careful not to hit any wayward tourists, looking for a parking space along the seawall.

"These parking spaces are free," she tells me. "So there are people who come and park here, sleep in their cars, buy food from the vendors here, and get a free vacation."

Gina has been down here long enough that she occasionally sounds as snobby as anyone B.O.I. (Born On the Island). It amuses me to watch her wrinkle her nose at "tourists" and all the tourist-y things they do and want.

"They never want to see the really interesting parts of the island," she complains. "All they want is the beach, cheap food, cheap souvenirs."

I can't blame them. Deep down, I'm the same way.

We decide to eat before going to the beach, so we pick one of the many restaurants close to the water. We eat at a table outside in the shade, feeling the breeze and smelling the salt water as we devour giant hamburgers with potato chips. My daughter runs inside to look at the giant fish tank filled with regional animals.

"I remember when you first moved down here," I say. "You were fretting because the humidity played havoc with your hair. You used so much hairspray to keep it plastered down that it looked like a helmet."

Gina laughs. She has her long hair up in a clip to keep it out of the way. "I gave up on all that a long time ago," she sighs. "You get used to the humidity."

After lunch, we go down to the beach, because there's no point in coming to Galveston if you don't walk through the sand and surf and go wade in the Gulf of Mexico.

I notice that there are many beaches that charge to park now.

"They are private beaches now," Gina says, shaking her head. "It's hard to believe that people are actually charging for access to the water."

I've come rather ill-equipped for this beach trip. I wasn't thinking so clearly as I packed our suitcase, and didn't bring swimsuits. But that doesn't deter either my daughter or Gina. As I stand in the wet sand, collecting shells from forgotten sea creatures, Gina and my daughter slowly make their way into the surf. My daughter is hesitant at first, intimidated by the strength of the waves to move her around, splashing into her and trying to suck her out to sea.

I move down the beach a bit, looking for more interesting shells and trying to see if there are any crabs or other creatures washed up on the sand. The tide has started coming in a bit now, as evidenced by the fact that our shoes are much closer to the water than when we started.

By the time I return, Gina and my daughter are both half-soaked, trying to jump over the waves and failing miserably. Their laughter echoes down the sand and makes me smile. This is the daughter who was deathly afraid of water just last year, and now she's complaining that she wants to go farther out.

But it's time to head out and get cleaned up. We were planning to go out to dinner with Gina and her boyfriend, maybe do something more Houston-y. As much as I love Gina's new digs, it's the island that I always come to see.

Well, came to see.