This morning I
enjoy the most delicious shower. The
world improves, becoming clean and sparkly, even in Del Rio, Texas. After showering, I can now look at last
night’s dinner as a cultural experience, having recovered from being just tired
and pissed. I haven’t had such bad
service since… since… well, never. I still
wonder whether the Ramada passes for high class here. “No, not at all,” says Bloodroot, still
disgusted, “even for Del Rio, Texas.”
Heading out again
on Texas route 90, we’re almost immediately stopped by the Border Patrol,
probably south Texas’ only remaining federal employer. After ascertaining our citizenship, they send
us on our way.
Any time I think
that we may be a normal family, Bloodroot will begin to kiss Keith’s bald head
in a manner Keith calls a Goat Molestation.
Keith remains stoic, enduring the nearly daily attention, generally
shouting, “Goat! Goat!”
This morning,
Keith, not Bloodroot, supplies our daily dose of insanity. Bloodroot wants to
backtrack five miles up to the Amistad National Recreation Area to stamp our
passports. We don’t plan to visit the
park, only stamp our passports. This
makes perfect sense to me.
The five-mile
backtrack greatly upsets Keith who firmly believes exclusively in forward
motion. “Ten miles out of the way!”
shouts Keith as he grudgingly acquiesces.
“I wanna stamp! I wanna
stamp! It’s only fifty miles back! Waaaa!” Keith yells, banging his fists
against the steering wheel and stomping his feet in a temper tantrum imitation
that would bring great pride to any four-year-old. Pearl jerks as Keith’s feet leave the gas
pedal to trample the floor.
Pearl has been
talking to Keith again, claiming that she wants to join the 100 mph club. Keith maintains that she isn’t old enough
yet. I chime in that it’s a bad idea to
even look like you might be thinking about breaking a law in Texas. After all, we have Colorado license plates
and the Border Patrol has already stopped us twice.
We buy gas again,
still recovering from our brush with death in the Guadalupe Mountains. Somehow one of Bloodroot’s socks falls out of
the car. Leaving the station, we spot
the sock and circle back to retrieve it.
Bloodroot is nothing if not cheap (he prefers the term “frugal”) and we
can’t be lolling about throwing out socks!
As we enter San
Antonio, I’m assigned navigation, but my hands don’t work. I fumble through our map collection, never
finding the small insert showing downtown and the Alamo, our destination. Try as hard as I may, I just can’t manipulate
the paper, eventually ending up surrounded by piles of misfolded maps. Keith disgustedly delegates my task to
Bloodroot.
Bloodroot leads us
as we randomly drive around San Antonio, all the while loudly proclaiming that
he knows our exact location and that I lack faith in him. “We’re going south, Mom.” But Pearl’s compass
says east. The boys consult the
maps. I remain quiet, never an easy task
for me. Bloodroot does indeed find
downtown. We become one with a massive
traffic jam directly in front of the Alamo.
Escaping the
traffic jam, we search for parking.
Following a good bit of circling, we discover a city-owned parking lot
near the main plaza where Pearl can extend her ramp. We find the $9 charge a bit steep, but
whatever, we’re on vacation.
Crossing the main plaza, we see the imposing Cathedral of San Fernando, a massive Spanish edifice. San Antonio is Spanish in the same way that Quebec City is French. As outposts of long-ago European civilization, each strove to maintain the ties to the old country, making them more Spanish than Spain or more French than France.
This church looks
like something straight out of Spain: two large bell towers covered by wooden
shutters and three front doors. The
doors, also wooden, no longer completely reach the marble lintels, but I doubt
that it’s ever very cold here. The
cathedral transports me back to medieval Spain.
I begin furtively looking over my shoulder for the Inquisition. Will the Inquisition know my secret thoughts? Will I pass or am I an obvious
Unitarian? Oh no, I’m an
Anglophone!
We pass enough to
enter the cathedral through the side door, buzzing up the ramp thoughtfully
provided for Sven. Settlers from the
Canary Islands, of all places, built the church in the mid-1700s, staking their
claim in the new world. They wanted to create
an edifice grand enough to house their most prized possession - a baptismal
font given to them by the Spanish king Charles III. The church also contains a black Jesus and a
black Mary, who actually look more Indian than black, albeit dark skinned. The parish unfortunately retrofitted the
remainder of the church, effectively erasing our Spanish past.
Crossing the
plaza, we find a ramp to the San Antonio Riverwalk. We descend and walk along the river. The river resembles a wide canal. Our stroll takes us past multi-hued
buildings, varied architecture, palm trees, greenery, hotels and
restaurants. We even see an arched
bridge, a la Venice. I notice little,
finding myself preoccupied with not driving Sven into the river. Bear wishes that we had allotted more time to
San Antonio and vows to return. We
resurface via some secret hotel lift and head to the Alamo.
Ah, the
Alamo. Peter Rowan’s song Moonlight Midnight swirls round my
head. “I will meet you at the Alamo Mission.
We will say our prayers. Holy
Ghost and the Virgin Mother will heal us as we kneel there.” I spent years playing that song with the
Akron (OH) hippies, never tiring of it.
Ah, the irony, now here I am crippled at the Alamo Mission. I call Dave the bandleader and tell his
answering machine that I am indeed at the Alamo Mission.[1] Although I dutifully say my prayers, I am not
healed.
The Daughters of
the Republic of Texas maintain the Alamo, a revered shrine dedicated to lives
lost in the 1836 Alamo battle. The
Spanish built the Alamo Mission, a far-flung outpost of their extensive empire,
to withstand an Indian assault, not the artillery of an 18th-century
army. Following a thirteen-day siege,
the Mexican general Santa Anna’s army overran the mission and brutally
slaughtered all combatants, leaving some servants alive to spread the tale of
horror. The Texans, their mettle
strengthened by the knowledge of no quarter given (no surrender, all will be
slain) rose and later defeated Santa Anna’s army, establishing the short-lived
(ten years) Republic of Texas.[2] The Alamo Mission itself consists of numerous
buildings including a church, hospital and barracks.
We take photos of
ourselves in front of the mission, then join a Disney-esque line dotted with
posters hanging every few feet explaining the Alamo’s history. My eyes don’t work well anymore, making me a
slow reader, certainly something I never thought I’d be. The darn line moves more rapidly than I can
read the placards, forcing me to resort to the internet to satisfy my history
jones! The unimpressive shrine consists
mostly of flags and tourists milling about a rectangular building.
Another secret
elevator returns us to the Riverwalk. Overly
hungry, Bear and I can’t decide where to eat.
We don’t want any more horrid tourist crap food, the Del Rio Ramada
still weighing heavily upon our minds and bodies. Fortunately, the Goat assumes leadership of
our enterprise, choosing a restaurant called the Acenar. Through the magic of elevators, we visit the
downstairs baño and the upstairs dining room.
The staff forbids us an outside table, claiming prior reservations. We sit, half of our table outside and half
inside, gazing over twenty empty tables to the river below.
We enjoy our meal despite
receiving way, way too much food. I’m so
tired of stupid obscenely large American portions. We see so many amazingly huge people on the
Riverwalk that perhaps we should forgive the staff for the gigantic lunch. Gotta feed those big Texas boys! As he rolls up yet another bean and rice
burrito, Bloodroot confesses to having inherited his DNA dad’s penchant for
eating any swill set before him. We
leave, rescuing Bloodroot from obesity.
Returning to
Pearl, we discover that city parking is free on Saturdays. We drive out to tonight’s Airbnb house. I can drive Sven through the front door. Yeah!
And miracle of miracles, we find an operating washing machine and
dryer. We watch TV, drink some wine, and
wash clothes. The exertion of travel
disappears with the promise of clean clothing.
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