San Antonio

When you say you’re going to San Antonio, people automatically say, “Oh, yes. The Riverwalk.” They’re right, but we found the city so much more than that.  We were enchanted, from start to finish.

  

The walk itself is hard to describe, and none of us took an adequate photo. A narrow bit of the San Antonio River meanders through downtown, lined on both sides with restaurants and shops in the bottom floors of handsome buildings that tower above. Son Steve treated his sister and me to a gorgeous hotel that actually had a little bit of the river running through it.

 

The sidewalks curve in and out, and a dozen picturesque bridges let you wander at will, while tour boats sail up and down. It sounds tacky-touristy, but isn’t; it’s so attractive that you just want to spend hours there—especially in 75-degree weather, even late in the evening (sorry, Northerners!).

 

 

Then, of course, there's the Alamo. I was very surprised that, despite being surrounded by a wax museum, 3-D adventure movies, carriage rides, and slushie vendors, it had a dignity and quiet about it. Regardless of whether or not you buy its advertised significance—as a monument to heroes who sacrificed their lives for the ideal of freedom—it's powerful; I was drawn back three or four times for its impressive presence, especially at night.



 

The two major missions we visited had a similar, sublimely serene feeling. We learned a lot about the 300-year Spanish rule and the exigencies that forced Native peoples into mission life, and marveled at the skill of the artisans who created magnificence in what was then wilderness.

 

 





We also loved Market Square, where we seemed to be the only ones speaking English, and music and color abounded. We mostly resisted the folk art, but indulged on mangos on a stick, roasted corn, and the best gorditas ever.

 

 

La Villita, a former Mexican village converted to artists’ shops, was another favorite. Again, it had a spacious, serene feel that we found enchanting. If you were of an imaginative turn of mind, or read too many novels, you could almost picture the senoritas primping for the evening promenade through the  broad courtyard, or selecting the best roses for the family shrine.

 

 

On our last morning we got an informal tour of the ornate San Fernando cathedral.

 

 

Davy Crockett and Jim Bowie were interred in the entryway—after they’d been dug up from somewhere else and put on display for a year. Words fail me.