I think I got 12 mosquito bites the night Joshua and I ate at The Capri. It was our last night in Marfa, Texas and neither of us were looking forward to leaving behind such a significant little town. There's a specific kind of quiet that only exists in the middle of nowhere, a penetrating quiet that goes beyond just a lack of highway traffic or chatty tourists, and settles into your bones, shifting the way you think, feel, and move. It makes the days seem longer, the air more fresh, and already-delicious food and drink more memorable. And both of us noticed it the second we arrived.
I had heard about Marfa a few years back, probably just after Beyoncé visited and made the city an "it girl" get-away vacation spot. But my experience there was almost nothing like I expected. It wasn't trendy bar after trendy bar filled with hip artists, filmmakers, and musicians. It wasn't food trucks with a line down the block for the best tacos in Texas. It was quiet, secluded, almost strange. Restaurants stay open until they feel like closing, many of them only open a few days a week. The streets are seemingly abandoned, a car or small group of people passing through every once in awhile. And while the city didn't meet my expectations, it exceeded them in a way I never could have imagined. Marfa is just as incredible as everyone says it is, not because it's "cool", but because it's remarkable, peculiar, special.
That last night after dinner we sat outside for a few hours, sipping on craft cocktails, while I ignored Joshua's request that we move inside; although he had zero mosquito bites, I was welcoming new ones every few minutes. And while the next day in the car I sat with my hands in my lap, unsuccessfully willing the itching to stop, it didn't matter. Those pesky bites eventually go away, but Marfa doesn't. It stays with you, in your bones, until you eventually hop in the car and make your way back.