Houston

Today, I visited Mission Control in Houston, a windowless block of concrete in Houston's Johnson Space Center. Inside, as seems to be the case everywhere here, work spaces inside the office are replicated outside the office for parking spaces, even bearing the same desk signs.

Along the freeways, cars straight out of MTV's Pimp My Ride are driven by bulky, mean-looking men listening to aggressive music, either RnB or heavy metal, depending on their ethnic background. We drive past signs advertising palm readers, miracle products and the remedy for all the sins of this world.

Driving downtown tonight reminded me of zombie movies: empty roads flanked by enormous steel buildings, occasional homeless and drunkards staggering stumbling near bus stops like moths near street lights. It's like London's Canary Wharf, but without London around it.

I ran into a shop assistant at Abercrombie & Fitch. When I said I had flown here from Amsterdam, he told me how much he wanted to go there for the free lifestyle and fun. I was surprised, because that's what the tourist guide says about Houston: fun and freedom unlike anywhere else. I guess it's true, but only if you don't read the small print.