I’ve spent much of the past week in Houston. This was not by choice. I was there to cover the Texas primary.

In fact, my instinct is to say that when Texas joined the union in 1846, James Polk said, “All right. We’ll let them in.” Then he leaned in to Vice President George Dallas and said, “Except Houston. I can’t stand Houston.” Dallas nodded.

I made my way down last week for the Republican debate. I was staying at a hotel near Hobby Airport and had an interview with a political science professor at Rice University one morning.

“Let’s see,” I thought to myself. “Rice is about ten miles away.”

I then considered the ridiculous traffic situation in Houston.

I mean, look at these ramp meters! What is this, California?!

No, no, California’s ramp meters turn green sometimes. They certainly don’t stay red long enough for you to get frustrated, pick up your phone and take a picture while you sit in the same place in line for, like, five minutes.

So I continued thinking.

“Rice is ten miles away. If I leave now and drive eight hours a day, I should arrive by September.”

The debate itself was at the University of Houston. You probably remember some of the arguing. They could have had the debate in Ft. Worth. I’m sure in a different city, they wouldn’t have been so angry. The Ft. Worth debate would have been a two hour display of gentlemanly club life.

I did have some free time, though, so I continued thinking to myself. “You know what they’ve got in Houston? Po’ boys. They’ve got po’ boys in Houston.”

There was a place near the university that had good reviews, but that’s when I realized I’m not, like, a po’ boy connoisseur. I had no clue what made a po’ boy good, other than deliciousness.

Instead, since I was already on the south side of Houston, I decided to go a po’ boy place in Galveston that a former co-worker recommended back when I worked in Houston. I spent quite a bit of time in Galveston that year, given that the Lord decided to sic Hurricane Ike and three other storms on the area as retribution for my decision to move to Houston that spring.

I texted her a picture and was quite pleased with my decision. This particular po’ boy outfit gives you hush puppies and ketchup with an insouciant hint of horseradish. Listen to me: that’s the Cadillac of dipping sauces, right there.

I also met with another associate who saw that I had stopped at the Buc-ee’s along I-45 on my way in. She explained that instead of always stopping for Beaver Nuggets, I should try their fudge (an aside: is it weird that Beaver Nuggets have their own facebook page?).

The fudge is more expensive than Beaver Nuggets, but it was delicious. Also, I think I may be diabetic, now.

Around the corner from Benno’s was this sign in someone’s yard. You know, Gustafson, from Grumpy Old Men!

I’m sorry I missed the debate between candidates running for Galveston County Republican party chair. I bet Gustafson told his opponent to pull his lip over his head and swallow.

I’d like to thank Galveston for making this trip down I-45 more enjoyable.

In conclusion, why do so many women in Houston have to love me and want to keep me well-fed?! This is the cross I bear.