Pt 12 A cozy parking lot dinner in Midland, Texas
Dinning el fresco among the oil industries giants of the past right in the parking lot. Why not! if you can, you can!
As we pulled out of Sombra Antigua Vineyard (via Harvest Host) at the break of dawn. We were now following the careful directions of our RV Garmin with highways intact. The first part of the drive followed my backroad adventure passing my little secret spot of dancing between two states, I tried to cover my laugh with a cough as I gazed out the window at the replay in my minds eye (and reveling in this childish and yet fun reverie).
Need to catch up?
The sun barely kissed the horizon as we climbed the onramp onto Interstate 10 East, headed for Midland, Texas. I wondered if we were still in New Mexico or if we’d accidentally entered a morning rush hour portal straight out of LA. Where did all these people come from? Google Maps optimistically clocked our route at five hours and nine minutes, which, as any seasoned RVer knows, really means at least six and a half hours.
Cruising along, a peculiar sensation settled over me as Mexico appeared just to our right, so close that it felt within reach—separated only by an expanse of terrifying barbed wire that looked menacingly familiar, the kind you’d expect to see at a maximum-security prison. The double-layered fencing stretched out, slicing the horizon with a cold, metallic gleam that seemed out of place against the vast, open desert.
The sight of it triggered an uneasy feeling, as though the fence was trying to blend into the desert landscape but failing; its cold, metallic sheen refusing to be concealed. It stood exposed, a stark line in the desert dirt that couldn’t hide its true nature. The double layer of barbed wire presented a false sense of security for both sides—its presence a silent, steel warning that underscored the tension. It was a symbol of division, casting the illusion of control while the vastness of the desert whispered that borders were only as strong as the will behind them.
The proximity of another country, so close and yet so separate, was surreal. Memories of my days living in Mexico floated back, intertwined with the realization of how many stories this border must hold. What have those wires witnessed? The laughter, the desperation, the whispered prayers? It felt as though the landscape itself was holding its breath, the tension palpable.
The double fence reminded me of federal prisons, with their cold, stark, steely unyielding walls meant to confine. But here, the barrier was a dual force guarding and dividing, separating lives and dreams. The desert, golden in the morning light, seemed torn between two worlds. One side stretched deep into the U.S., filled with its promise and expectation; the other reached back to Mexico, vibrant, familiar, and enigmatic.
Every glance at that ominous barbed wire added weight to the journey, turning this part of the fast moving highway into a corridor between worlds. It whispered of history, silent witnesses, and the unrelenting divide that etched its shadow over the land.
As we buzzed by Esperanza, the border slipped out of view, and I felt I could breathe again, shaking off the oppressive feeling. Now, I could fully take in the changing landscape, watching as the majestic mountains unfolded before us, their peaks rising gracefully to dominate the horizon. To my left, Sierra Blanca rose up, a sentinel watching over the landscape. On the right, the Quitman Mountains began to dominate, their jagged peaks cutting into the sky. It was here, somewhere between the mountains and the openness of the road, that I found the peace that RV travel promises. The road unfolded ahead, and it was just us—the meowing cats, our motorcoach, and an ever-changing backdrop.
Driving southeast, I can’t help but compare the journey to our past adventures through Arizona and New Mexico. The landscape here is different, less aggressive in its beauty. Arizona, is bold and unapologetic if anything it spends most of its time taking your breath away—its red rocks and towering saguaros screaming for attention, like a diva needing to be seen. New Mexico’s colors are much the same, but, muted desert hues, soft browns and oranges. The kind of beauty that sneaks up on you, quiet and patient offering more of an intropesrtive experience.
Welcome to Texas
The rugged, rocky terrain of the open desert, dotted with sparse vegetation, gradually gives way to the vast, flat plains of Texas. The air feels different as the landscape begins to shift, and with each passing mile, the peaceful quiet of the desert is replaced by the sight of sprawling oil fields and ranches. Almost as if on cue, we spot our first oil pump jack; its steady, mechanical rhythm silently rising and falling against the horizon.
The expansive flatness draws us in, mile by mile hypnotizing us with the faint smell of oil occasionally wafting through the coach’s vents. The mountains that once framed our view slowly disappear, yielding to the wide, open plains now dotted with countless pump jacks. This is a land shaped by industry and perseverance, where every inch seems to echo the hardworking spirit of those who’ve labored here for generations.
This part of Texas has long been defined by its oil industry. The discovery of oil in the early 1900s transformed West Texas—particularly around Midland and Odessa—into one of the most productive oil regions in the country. The Permian Basin, which stretches across this area, is one of the richest oil fields in the world. In fact, the Basin has produced over twenty-nine billion barrels of oil since the 1920s. What was once ranching country quickly became the epicenter of the Texas oil boom. The endless pump jacks, tirelessly working away, are now the defining feature of the landscape.
As we approach Midland, the duality of this region becomes even more apparent. What was once frontier land, defined by cattle ranches and wide-open spaces, is now interwoven with the rise and fall of the oil industry. Midland grew rapidly during the oil boom of the 1920s, and today it stands as a testament to the region’s resilience. The economy here is still inextricably linked to the price of oil, and as you drive through, you can feel the pulse of that legacy in the very ground beneath your wheels.
Soon, the Permian Basin Petroleum Museum looms ahead. I can’t help but reflect on the stark contrast between where we started, among serene vineyards and where we’ve arrived; the hard-hatted world of oil rigs. This journey is as much about introspection as it is about exploration.
Once again, we found ourselves alone, setting up a cozy dinner right there in the car park of the Permian Basin Petroleum Museum. Our leftovers became a feast: crusty day-old bread transformed into toasted crispy garlic and parmesan cheese bread, paired perfectly with a zucchini zoodle Greek salad. The star of the meal, however, was the last cherished bottle from Sombra Antigua Vineyard and Winery, a fitting tribute to the journey we’ve been on.
Tonight, we dined al fresco, surrounded by the silent giants of the oil industry. The vintage rigs and rusted equipment that once powered the world, now standing like monuments to a bygone era. The sunset, as if on cue, draped everything in golden hues, casting long shadows across the lot, turning even the industrial scene with the hum of the highway into something beautiful. The Texas sky, vast and endless, bathed us in a warm, magenta glow, making the moment feel almost magical having us almost forget we are in a car park.
Before settling in for dinner, we had just enough time to walk the perimeter of the museum. The place had a presence, even with the gates closed and no one around. The building itself is sleek and modern, with sharp lines and a reflective glass facade that mirrors the vast West Texas sky above it. The architecture feels like a tribute to the industry it represents, clean, efficient, and a little imposing, like an oil rig standing tall against the horizon.
Even without stepping inside, the museum tells a story. Large metal sculptures, shaped like oil derricks and machinery, dot the landscape outside, paying homage to the hard labor that built this region. The grounds are meticulously maintained, with desert plants like prickly pear cacti and yucca adding a splash of green to the otherwise dusty, flat terrain. The juxtaposition of these natural elements against the industrial feel of the museum is a striking reminder that this is a place where nature and industry collide to somehow call a truce in the name of harmony.
Off to one side, a collection of vintage oil drilling equipment stands like silent sentinels, their surfaces rusted slightly from years spent under the harsh Texas sun, yet still formidable. These relics of the past seem to project their once-bustling life onto me, as if I could hear the noisy hum of an era gone by, simply by laying my hand on the cold metal. Now resting quietly, they serve as monuments to the region's history of boom and bust. You can almost hear the engines roar and the clang of metal echoing through time, as you imagine the men and women who toiled tirelessly in the scorching heat to pull liquid black gold from the earth.
The surrounding area stretches out in every direction, the horizon only broken by the occasional pump jack, still tirelessly working in the distance. It’s a landscape that feels endless, vast, and a little lonely. The emptiness of the parking lot, with no cars and no activity, only adds to the solitude. But there’s something peaceful about it, and allows for an opportunity to reflect on the power of the land and the resourcefulness of those who built an empire from the oil beneath it. Even with the museum closed, the story of the Permian Basin was all around us, waiting to be absorbed.
After a long day of driving, well, me playing the role of passenger and in-flight attendant to my pilot hubby and two perpetually confused cats, I was more than ready for bed. As we tidied up and put everything away, the once-empty car park had quietly filled with other road warriors, all settling in for the night. You could almost sense the shared exhaustion, as dreams of tomorrow’s adventures danced in our heads.
I wish we had had the time to tour the inside of the museum. Perhaps one day, we will end up back here and make a point to be on time to experience it all. If the outside is any reflection of the inside will be worth the visit indeed.
I was excited to hit the road the next morning because we were off to see some friends in Wichita Falls. As my eye mask slipped over my eyes blocking out the unnecessary and over bearing lot lights, I was asleep before my head hit the pillow.
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Permian Basin Petroleum Museum
1500 Interstate 20 West, Midland, TX 79701
