n Thursday, my parents drove from Dallas to see me in Austin. It was the second day of the music festival, the whole city hopped up on sunshine and Shiner Bock. Hoping to keep my folks at arms’ length from blaring music and drunken Germans, I took them to a little Mexican place on South First called Polvo’s.

We sat on the porch beside a group of thirtysomething women, each dressed in tight jeans, a tank top, giant sunglasses swallowing their faces, and haircuts much cooler than they were attractive. They were having a grand time, smoking and slurping up pitchers of margaritas. As my parents and I caught up--on the goings-on at their church, on mom’s planned kitchen renovation--the girls clinked glasses and cackled with glee.

“Hey, you fucking whore!” one woman yelled as a friend walked up.

I rubbed my forehead and said, “So, how’s the dog?”

Later, after my mother returned from the bathroom, she explained she had been gone so long because two women were locked inside pretending to have sex. I flagged the waitress, and asked for the bill.

Don’t get me wrong; my parents are down. They get it, they’re cool. Still, seeing them at dirty, debaucherous SXSW, with their khaki shorts and their sweet forgiving smiles, they were like innocents in a roomful of cigar-smoking sailors.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” one girl yelled at another. “Who talks like this?” I wondered. And then I remembered: Oh, that’s right. I do.

Later, we strolled down South Congress, where Austin keeps itself weird with a string of kitsch and antique stores holding packed afternoon parties. My parents peered in with wonder at each one.

“Why isn’t anyone at that show?” My dad pointed to an outdoor stage where a handful of people cooled their heels in front of an acoustic band.

“Because that band is probably terrible,” I said. And then, because my father looked genuinely sad for them, I added, “No, it’s because they don’t have free beer.”

I could tell my parents wanted to understand, but it was such a new vocabulary for them-- buzz bands and laminates and day parties. My parents speak the language of Mozart and puppy day school.

“What’s a hipster?” my dad once asked. “What’s indie rock?” These questions are not as easy as they sound. They’re like, “Why is the sky blue?” or “Where did I come from?”

It was a beautiful day, though, and after a quiet Italian dinner at Vespaio, we finished up with a little trip to Target-- which, thankfully, everyone understands.