The only thing worse than falling asleep in a gulag is waking up in one. The less said about the LaQuinta Inn and Livingston, Texas, the better, but you can tell a lot about a town by the condition of their oldest theater. The poor old Fain Theatre in downtown Livingston is a travesty. No rich local can rub up some coins? The town left me feeling filmy and gloomy, especially after their empty golf course rejected me due to no tee time, I needed a rejuvenation, I needed a washer and dryer, I needed a break, I was dizzy.
No lunch, no gas fill up, I wanted out of Livingston, wanted to go west, and I went west, heading for Berlin, just outside of Brenham, Texas, world famous for Blue Bell ice cream. My tension was high, my nerves were skittish, but slowly, the curvey roads and thinning pines provided some relief. JJ Cale's Grasshopper album finally set me right as I rolled into downtown Brenham, hungry and with my senses back in balance. Filled up on chicken fried steak, murals, and two scoops of Blue Bell butter pecan in a sugar cone, I was impressed with Brenham. Berlin was 10 miles west according to maps, I was on my way.
I blew past the supposed town going 85 MPH, only a brief glimpse of a street sign indicating S. Berlin Rd. made me realize I missed it. From highway 290, you'd think Berlin didn't exist, the suburban new Brenham water tower loomed over the area, a trailer dealer, an energy station, and north and south Berlin Road. I went south first. A beautiful, tidy, fully operational, complely historical, small Lutheran Church sat a quarter mile south of the highway, nothing else but pricey homesteads, each with rolling hills and several acres. North Berlin Road was the same, without the church.
