Ol' San Anton-

Some years ago I spent Christmas in San Antonio. It was an odd thing to be on the Riverwalk with other lackluster couples, military personnel on break from officer’s training meeting their parents and foreigners celebrating San Antonio but not Christmas. I was staying at the St. Anthony Hotel where Grace Kelly had stayed in another lifetime. The hotel didn’t look like it had changed much. The rooms were huge boxes with grainy views of a dilapidated park next to the highway and the rumored best brunch in town. In the lobby near the ballroom hung a modest photograph of a white tie event held for Grace in that very place. The photograph sparkled but the ballroom looked so tiny and dusty, I could hardly imaging…

The Riverwalk was filled with restaurants for real, true, hardcore tourists. Hooters, hot wings, Chinese food, Polly Ester’s, you can imagine. The river there, which guided one through the thick of the city, was smoky and seemingly empty.

But, in situations such as these, there is no point in trying to fight the idea of tourist. Instead, I wanted to have a firm grasp on San Antonio from my view. I took rolls of pictures looking up off the Riverwalk at the view above. Palm fronds (how many times do you see those strung with Christmas lights) and chalky verandas, the tinkle of ice in glass and the smell of corn tortillas. A low murmur of people but all told, a delightful white noise of silence that marched through the holiday.

On the last day, I drove to a residential part of town to look at an old flourmill. There is still, somewhere, a picture of me in front of that mill. It could have been anywhere. Sometimes it is difficult to remember where I was on that particular holiday. But, in truth, I was at the core of the King’s Highway from Mexico City. I was in the town of the Alamo, the town where Lyle Lovett steals a girl from another man and takes a ride to a country store listening to Robert Earl Keen.