San Antonio.

There are always going to be scads of good excuses not to leave the apartment:

I’m tired.

It’s cloudy.

I got too late a start today.

I’ll get lost.

I’m All Alone in the World.

There will be traffic, and the way people—and sometimes even I!—drive makes me wish this species would go extinct already.

Gas is expensive.

It was in light of this that I forced myself to relinquish my hermitage today to fulfill my New Year’s resolution of a once-monthly Texas tourist jaunt by trekking to San Antonio.

I parked more or less on top of the Alamo, which I found by accident. It was the Alamo, all right—nice architecture. And I learned things! I learned that the battle of the Alamo was part of the Texas Revolution; while the former was lost, the latter was won, and thus the Independent Republic of Texas came to be in 1836. Texas became the 28^th state in the union in 1845, starting a war with Mexico in which California, New Mexico, Utah, Nevada, and Arizona (am I leaving any states out?) were usurped (or, “acquired”, as the museum plaque put it) by the United States. These are things I should probably have retained from the second grade, but, for whatever paucity of character this betrays, I am not a history buff—so let’s hear it for learning, even if it is too little, too late!

Wandering about the museum was an interesting opportunity to reflect on the extent to which the fetishism of objects defines history. Among the objects displayed were a locket that purportedly contains a lock of Davey Crockett’s hair (kindly note the assonance) and, of course, the many means of wounding and killing, including a Bowie knife, rifles, swords, and cannons and cannonballs.

Perhaps I am betraying my foul, sour, and shrewish nature by giving voice to the following observation, but it was strange to watch couples nuzzle and canoodle all around what is, after all, a commemorative battle site, replete with a display case featuring uniform buttons suspected to have been charred by a funeral pyre. And, since I’m being foul, sour, and shrewish, I will also note that  I suppose the girl glued to her iPhone was too transfixed by its hypnotic powers as she wandered the exhibit like the Walking Dead to notice the many signs imploring visitors to turn off all electronic devices while inside. I did not, alas, have a chance to visit the Alamo’s basement. Maybe next time.

After the Alamo, it was on to the River Walk, which reminded me a little bit of the canals in Utrecht. The purpose of the preceding comment is of course to point out that I have been to Utrecht. San Antonio itself (at least the highly touristy part to which I confined myself) reminded me a little of Barcelona, with its helpful proliferation of signs listing the surrounding attractions and arrows leading the way. The purpose of the preceding comment is of course to point out that I have been to Barcelona. I wandered about dazedly for a bit and then ordered an unremarkable quesadilla and an all-right margarita (both scandalously overpriced, but what did I expect at a tourist joint?) at a thoroughly forgettable Mexican restaurant along the river. Things spied on the River Walk include:

A family walking around wearing paper chef toques

Mariachi bands

A man toting a small, bedraggled white dog with what looked like a cigar hanging out of its mouth

Many cowboy hats

Ducks!

After the River Walk, I wandered the surrounding area a bit, peeking through the doors of the Majestic Theater to catch a glimpse of its marvelous interior. It was already almost dark at that point (I got, as I said, a ridiculously late start today), so I returned to the car, happy to have realized my ambitions of Texas tourism for the month of January, and even happier to wend my way back to hermitage. 

 Rest assured that there are places to sit in the Alamo. Also rest assured that, should you forget that you are in Texas, these benches will remind you.

Anyone can take pictures of the Alamo—as subjects go, I favored this alley!

In keeping with my tradition of photo-documenting Texas restrooms, here is the door to the ladies' room of the restaurant where I ate lunch!

For the gents.

Apparently I have benches on the brain.

These guys look drunk. Also, does this count as cannibalism?