![]() Little historical tidbits provided levity and the opportunity for vivid imagery, like reading a Cormac McCarthy passage in the very bar where it took place. My soles were not deprived of experience either, with restorative evening paseos ennobled by history, architecture, and culture. Meandering routes outside downtown allowed appreciation of different neighborhoods within the diamond points of Cattleman Square/Near West, Olmos Park, Eastside Promise, and San Jose/Missions. On downtown’s narrow streets, you could coast right up to historical and cultural sites that rose before you. Propelled by a variety of wheels (B-cycle, VIA, Amtrak) my rehabilitated perspective was allowed to take in the world while en route to obligations. From this new base, I began to experience the city’s mainstays with renewed childlike earnestness, sharp and free of sense-blunting cynicism and routine. ![]() I searched and came across an open apartment in a converted Builders Exchange: central in location, substantial in construction, and - most key - attainable with an intern’s meager salary. His appreciation of San Antonio’s rich history, built environment, and latent potential was infectious a condition that became increasingly intractable with each passing visit en route to family. For all of South Texas’ charms as an unhurried and centering place, it was ultimately these kinds of metropolises where one’s mind was sharpened.Īfter moving outside Texas, I never really had a reason to update my adolescent, city-in-name-only perspective of San Antonio until years later when a friend - a budding architect - disabused me of my ignorance. Cities were homes to intellectual cross-currents, cultural enrichment, diverse cuisine, novel technology, occupational challenge, substantive abodes set in towering masonry, and concrete that bore passive witness to history. One had been raised in the migrant enclaves of Chicago and the other lived in Guadalajara where, per divorce agreements, I spent some months annually. As a child, that meant it was a field trip destination and source of fascination (Shamu! The Alamo! River malls!), though that perspective soured with the lens of adolescence.ĭespite being raised on the border, I had been imbued with an idealized perspective of cities by my parents. Having been mostly raised on the South Texas border, San Antonio was the nearest American city. The road to San Antonio, unlike Palo Duro’s, was not unknown. Snow? The long zip of our tent door revealed a quiet, blanketed landscape a moment suspended in time before quickly melting to reveal new paths. Hours passed in an instant that stillness was interrupted by soft, irregular thuds against the tent and lava lamp silhouettes before the twilight. With our tents set up, my mind yielded to the dark stillness of the canyon floor. On match day, we took a multi-hour trip punctuated by a winding descent into the floor of Palo Duro Canyon and a lamplit walk to our campsite. Its benefits also come with some stresses: money sunk, unceremonious wrenching from loved ones, competing with friends, and navigating eggshells around the unmatched.Ī dear friend, who was also initiating me into the world of backpacking, decided to guide me away from this stressful milieu. ![]() This algorithm was part of a matching process to efficiently connect students with training sites that serve as the capstone to their professional education. On February 22, 2013, an algorithm determined I would move to San Antonio. Have we been to your neighborhood yet? Get in touch to share your story. Each week a local resident invites us over and lets us in on what makes their neighborhood special. The Where I Live series aims to showcase our diverse city and region by spotlighting its many vibrant neighborhoods. ![]()
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