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Meanwhile, Here in Austin
100 pages, Paperback
Published August 15, 2025
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Displaying 1 - 12 of 12 reviews
August 22, 2025
Lovely book that offers a very personal account of the author's experiences in Austin, both good and bad. A quick read, with gorgeous photography.
October 28, 2025
Meanwhile, Here in Austin by Cetywa Powell, is a reflective, photographic memoir that documents the seasons, emotions, textures, and quiet revelations of life in Austin through the eyes of a transplant learning to belong. Told in four seasonal movements—Spring, Summer, Fall, and Winter, the book blends lyrical personal essays with photography that captures both the city’s geography and its emotional atmosphere. Spring is a study in discovery, from the deer that “won me over” during a house-hunting trip to the stunning bluebonnet blooms and the drama of thunderstorms.
Summer shifts from wonder to immersion: swimming holes, Tex-Mex culture, heatwaves, and the glory of Texas barbecue. Powell’s story pauses for a contemplative chapter on Covid, documenting how isolation, emptiness, and Texan identity collided in a year that changed the city’s rhythm. Fall is rooted in culture—live music, art installations, pumpkin nights, and conversations with strangers who map the city as much as architecture does. Winter, by contrast, is introspective and haunting: the 2021 freeze, days without power or water, the 2023 ice storm, mortgages and rent doubling, and the quiet vulnerability of a city unprepared for disaster. By the final pages, Austin is neither mythologized nor glamorized—it is lived-in, imperfect, and emotionally real, a place discovered through weather, art, small rituals, and human connection across seasons.
What makes the book especially successful is Powell’s hybrid style—part travelogue, part personal diary, part visual ethnography. The tone is intimate, reflective, and observant, carried by a photographer’s instinct to notice what others overlook: deer at daybreak, cicada husks, puddles reflecting glassy skyscrapers, or the stillness of neighbors standing beside fallen oak branches after an ice storm. Her voice is gentle but unsentimental, conveying affection without romanticizing the city. In that sense, it resembles books like Annie Dillard’s Pilgrim at Tinker Creek or Vivian Gornick’s The Odd Woman and the City, but with a distinctly contemporary Southwestern lens. Readers who enjoy The Anthropocene Reviewed by John Green or H is for Hawk by Helen Macdonald—works that braid place, memory, and observation—will find parallel pleasures here. Powell’s Austin is not the tourist’s Austin; it is the lived Austin, where “a city is defined by its people,” a truth she illustrates through vignettes of musicians, neighbors, and everyday encounters rather than skyline glamour.
It also stands apart from more journalistic “city portraits” because it refuses to flatten Austin into a brand. Instead, Powell treats the city as something evolving—beautiful yet precarious, generous yet transient, comforting yet unpredictable. The Covid section is a quiet fulcrum in the book; readers feel the psychological shift from discovery to uncertainty without dramatization. The prose remains steady, intimate, almost confessional. A lesser work might rely on sweeping declarations about Austin’s identity, but Powell’s technique is to show it—through waiting for the bats that never come, through conversations at the Day of the Dead party, or through standing shoulder-to-shoulder with a stranger after a storm. The effect is immersive and contemplative, and it may especially appeal to readers drawn to memoirs of place, newcomers adjusting to relocation, or creatives who experience cities through texture, light, routine, and weather rather than statistics or tourism.
If there is any limitation to the book, it is that its quietness may not satisfy readers seeking a dramatic arc or conventional plot; it is less a narrative than a deep emotional mapping of belonging. Yet that restraint is also its artistry. Powell invites the reader not to watch Austin, but to arrive inside it—to move through its seasons as she did, accumulating meaning the way light accumulates through a lens. In an age where cities are often summarized by branding or skyline shots, Meanwhile, Here in Austin feels refreshingly human-sized: a meditation on place as relationship, earned through attention, tenderness, and time.
Summer shifts from wonder to immersion: swimming holes, Tex-Mex culture, heatwaves, and the glory of Texas barbecue. Powell’s story pauses for a contemplative chapter on Covid, documenting how isolation, emptiness, and Texan identity collided in a year that changed the city’s rhythm. Fall is rooted in culture—live music, art installations, pumpkin nights, and conversations with strangers who map the city as much as architecture does. Winter, by contrast, is introspective and haunting: the 2021 freeze, days without power or water, the 2023 ice storm, mortgages and rent doubling, and the quiet vulnerability of a city unprepared for disaster. By the final pages, Austin is neither mythologized nor glamorized—it is lived-in, imperfect, and emotionally real, a place discovered through weather, art, small rituals, and human connection across seasons.
What makes the book especially successful is Powell’s hybrid style—part travelogue, part personal diary, part visual ethnography. The tone is intimate, reflective, and observant, carried by a photographer’s instinct to notice what others overlook: deer at daybreak, cicada husks, puddles reflecting glassy skyscrapers, or the stillness of neighbors standing beside fallen oak branches after an ice storm. Her voice is gentle but unsentimental, conveying affection without romanticizing the city. In that sense, it resembles books like Annie Dillard’s Pilgrim at Tinker Creek or Vivian Gornick’s The Odd Woman and the City, but with a distinctly contemporary Southwestern lens. Readers who enjoy The Anthropocene Reviewed by John Green or H is for Hawk by Helen Macdonald—works that braid place, memory, and observation—will find parallel pleasures here. Powell’s Austin is not the tourist’s Austin; it is the lived Austin, where “a city is defined by its people,” a truth she illustrates through vignettes of musicians, neighbors, and everyday encounters rather than skyline glamour.
It also stands apart from more journalistic “city portraits” because it refuses to flatten Austin into a brand. Instead, Powell treats the city as something evolving—beautiful yet precarious, generous yet transient, comforting yet unpredictable. The Covid section is a quiet fulcrum in the book; readers feel the psychological shift from discovery to uncertainty without dramatization. The prose remains steady, intimate, almost confessional. A lesser work might rely on sweeping declarations about Austin’s identity, but Powell’s technique is to show it—through waiting for the bats that never come, through conversations at the Day of the Dead party, or through standing shoulder-to-shoulder with a stranger after a storm. The effect is immersive and contemplative, and it may especially appeal to readers drawn to memoirs of place, newcomers adjusting to relocation, or creatives who experience cities through texture, light, routine, and weather rather than statistics or tourism.
If there is any limitation to the book, it is that its quietness may not satisfy readers seeking a dramatic arc or conventional plot; it is less a narrative than a deep emotional mapping of belonging. Yet that restraint is also its artistry. Powell invites the reader not to watch Austin, but to arrive inside it—to move through its seasons as she did, accumulating meaning the way light accumulates through a lens. In an age where cities are often summarized by branding or skyline shots, Meanwhile, Here in Austin feels refreshingly human-sized: a meditation on place as relationship, earned through attention, tenderness, and time.
January 12, 2026
Meanwhile, Here in Austin is a warm and vivid portrait of a life rebuilt in a new city, told through photographs, seasons, small moments, and quiet revelations. The book moves through a year in Austin and folds in memories of storms, wildlife, music, food, community, and family. Author Cetywa Powell shares snapshots that feel intimate and honest. Some pages linger on deer and wildflowers, others settle into the chaos of winter storms or the comfort of neighborhood rituals. The through line is a deep affection for a place that slowly becomes home.
I was pulled in by Powell’s writing style. It feels simple at first, almost gentle, yet underneath it sits a surprising emotional weight. Her images of deer in spring made me smile, and the chapters on thunderstorms made me sit up a little straighter. I felt her worry during Winter Storm Uri and her delight during summer afternoons at swimming holes. The voice feels like someone thinking out loud while watching the world drift by. I enjoyed that. It made the book feel personal. I wished the book had lingered longer on certain ideas, because some scenes flew by quickly, but maybe that fleeting quality is the whole point.
What stayed with me most was how the author tied her family’s everyday life to the bigger personality of Austin. The mix of humor, frustration, awe, and curiosity reminded me of what it feels like to fall into a city and let it shape you. Her thoughts on rising costs, constant change, and the churn of neighbors felt real. I felt her pride when she found slivers of beauty in chaos and her sadness when the bats did not appear one summer night. Some passages felt like private confessions. It is rare for a book of photography and short reflections to leave such a strong impression.
By the end, I felt like I had taken my own quiet tour of Austin, guided by someone who pays close attention to the world around her. I would recommend this book to readers who enjoy reflective writing, newcomers to Austin, longtime Austinites who want to see their city through fresh eyes, and anyone who loves stories built from ordinary days that somehow feel extraordinary. It is a heartfelt and thoughtful read, and a lovely companion for anyone who enjoys watching a place become home.
I was pulled in by Powell’s writing style. It feels simple at first, almost gentle, yet underneath it sits a surprising emotional weight. Her images of deer in spring made me smile, and the chapters on thunderstorms made me sit up a little straighter. I felt her worry during Winter Storm Uri and her delight during summer afternoons at swimming holes. The voice feels like someone thinking out loud while watching the world drift by. I enjoyed that. It made the book feel personal. I wished the book had lingered longer on certain ideas, because some scenes flew by quickly, but maybe that fleeting quality is the whole point.
What stayed with me most was how the author tied her family’s everyday life to the bigger personality of Austin. The mix of humor, frustration, awe, and curiosity reminded me of what it feels like to fall into a city and let it shape you. Her thoughts on rising costs, constant change, and the churn of neighbors felt real. I felt her pride when she found slivers of beauty in chaos and her sadness when the bats did not appear one summer night. Some passages felt like private confessions. It is rare for a book of photography and short reflections to leave such a strong impression.
By the end, I felt like I had taken my own quiet tour of Austin, guided by someone who pays close attention to the world around her. I would recommend this book to readers who enjoy reflective writing, newcomers to Austin, longtime Austinites who want to see their city through fresh eyes, and anyone who loves stories built from ordinary days that somehow feel extraordinary. It is a heartfelt and thoughtful read, and a lovely companion for anyone who enjoys watching a place become home.
January 20, 2026
This memoir examines place, belonging, and how a city shapes its residents through seasonal observations and personal narrative. The writing shows strong observational skills and an authentic voice. It should appeal to readers interested in place-based writing, urban memoirs, and contemporary Texas literature.
The book takes readers through the slow process of discovering a city, with observations that feel warm and honest. The narrative moves deliberately, letting moments unfold naturally—the deer that marked a new beginning, cicadas collected in plastic bags, puddles that reveal architecture, neighbors who anchor the community. Reading it is like walking through Austin with someone who pays attention: how oak trees bend, the P. Terry’s vs. Whataburger debate. The author's photography background shows in the writing, with scenes that stick with you.
The author celebrates Austin but doesn't sugarcoat it. Rising costs, infrastructure problems, and brutal summers—the book covers these, but the affection for the city comes through anyway. The pandemic section and the shooting at the slushie café give the book more depth. They show that cities are made of both good and bad moments. Winter Storm Uri gets attention, with its days without water and electricity, showing how even the toughest moments become part of a city's story. The seasonal structure fits the material, moving from spring through summer, fall, and winter, with each season bringing its own tone. The book includes numerous Austin-specific moments, such as waiting for bats at Congress Bridge, chasing puddles for photography, the Creek Show, and swimming holes. These details aren't just there for atmosphere—they show what daily life actually looks like in this city. Anyone who likes contemplative memoirs or books about cities should find something here.
The book captures Austin in detail, and it might change how you look at your own city—the small things matter as much as the big ones when it comes to feeling like you belong somewhere.
The book takes readers through the slow process of discovering a city, with observations that feel warm and honest. The narrative moves deliberately, letting moments unfold naturally—the deer that marked a new beginning, cicadas collected in plastic bags, puddles that reveal architecture, neighbors who anchor the community. Reading it is like walking through Austin with someone who pays attention: how oak trees bend, the P. Terry’s vs. Whataburger debate. The author's photography background shows in the writing, with scenes that stick with you.
The author celebrates Austin but doesn't sugarcoat it. Rising costs, infrastructure problems, and brutal summers—the book covers these, but the affection for the city comes through anyway. The pandemic section and the shooting at the slushie café give the book more depth. They show that cities are made of both good and bad moments. Winter Storm Uri gets attention, with its days without water and electricity, showing how even the toughest moments become part of a city's story. The seasonal structure fits the material, moving from spring through summer, fall, and winter, with each season bringing its own tone. The book includes numerous Austin-specific moments, such as waiting for bats at Congress Bridge, chasing puddles for photography, the Creek Show, and swimming holes. These details aren't just there for atmosphere—they show what daily life actually looks like in this city. Anyone who likes contemplative memoirs or books about cities should find something here.
The book captures Austin in detail, and it might change how you look at your own city—the small things matter as much as the big ones when it comes to feeling like you belong somewhere.
September 12, 2025
I like the format (like Vivaldi's Four Seasons)... and like a diary, it becomes a sentimental journey. The book adds a new dimension to traveling.
September 26, 2025
The city has changed so much since my UT Austin days. I enjoyed seeing the changes through photos, especially the downtown Austin reflection ones. Enjoyed the writing too.
October 10, 2025
Nice bedside table book.
October 18, 2025
Just moved to Austin. Great book to have as an introduction to the city.
November 18, 2025
I was expecting maybe another standard city essay meets photo collection, but reading this felt like I was walking through the city itself, season by season.
December 27, 2025
We moved to Austin a few years ago. The summers are too hot, it's ugly, and I hate the politics. But this book has inspired me to open up to Austin and give the city another chance.
February 21, 2026
Nice, little book. I enjoyed the photos.
October 24, 2025
Every city needs a love letter. This book is one to Austin.
Displaying 1 - 12 of 12 reviews