Alexander Medel, Lead Photographer

There is no sight more gratifying to me than the open road, for the open road allows the body to wander and the mind to wonder. It offers an escape for the imagination and a way of life governed by freedom and fueled by curiosity. 

My name is Alexander, and I am a sophomore in Timothy Dwight College studying political science and history. Naturally, my day is complete with writing papers, reading research articles and attending lectures. And as much as I am a Yale student, I consider myself a student of the world with the open road as my classroom.

This travel column, On the Road, recounts several of my adventures on asphalt and all the lessons I have learned from the people, places and things I have encountered on all roads, from those well-traveled to those not taken. 

 

For the past seven days, my parents and I have been making a mad dash across the Southwest. We have woken up in one state only to sleep in another. We have changed our clocks twice. There is an energy and excitement — a joie de vivre — to be found and felt on such a hopscotch adventure. And as much as we loved the adrenaline, we found ourselves in need of a change of pace. What better place to offer that than San Antonio?

San Antonio is one of those places that could keep the mind and body occupied for weeks on end. Since we had only a day to spare, however, my parents and I endeavored to spend each minute wisely.

We began our day just on the outskirts of town at the Mission Espada. We got there early enough to make walking in the open air a tolerable exercise and early enough to find good parking, not that it was a problem. The mission compound was barren save for a solitary man walking across the courtyard. Meanwhile, the clouds rested languidly over Mission Espada. They cast their shadows on the mission’s ruins, making them appear darker than they already were.

Mission Espada is one of five Spanish missions in San Antonio and one of four that comprise San Antonio Missions National Historical Park. The fifth mission in the city — Mission Valero, or what is better known as the Alamo — is administered separately.

The typical Spanish mission consists of a compound featuring a church and a large quadrangle bounded by supporting buildings. As for Mission Espada, gone were the buildings that once bounded its quadrangle. All that was left were their ruins: lonely arches, crumbling walls and stone outlines of foundations settling into the dust. The courtyard was expansive and dry, with large swaths of exposed earth turning patches of grass into green islands in a brown sea. The church, known for its three-bell tower, was a small building. Its walls were made up of large, gray stones with a few red ones scattered throughout its facade. We did not stay long and drove north to visit the other missions.

Much like its southern neighbor, most of the buildings in Mission San Juan’s compound have been reduced to hollowed ruins or hallowed ground. Unlike Mission Espada, we were in the company of many visitors who saw, for themselves, a church clothed in adobe painted brilliantly white. After learning about its history with a few park rangers, we moved along to our third mission, Mission San Jose.

 

Out of the four missions we saw at the historical park that day, Mission San Jose was the busiest. Vans were dropping off dozens of sightseers at the visitor center while rangers led caravans of tour groups into the mission compound. To me, the bustle made sense: Mission San Jose is the most restored out of the four missions. Its quadrangle, unlike the ones at Mission Espada and Mission San Jose, was surrounded by fully reconstructed buildings and walls. Beyond its arches, I saw the church’s white dome rise toward the sky. Its base was octagonal, but its top was a smooth hemisphere that only juxtaposed the church’s sharp buttresses. Hoping to take some rest from the sun, we entered the church. It was cool — too cool. For whatever reason, the air conditioning was furiously working its magic. Whatever hopes we had of feeling colder were replaced by yearning for the warmth located outside the church. Thus, after quickly inspecting the restored artwork and statues of the mission, we found ourselves back outside, hopped into our car and on the way to Mission Concepcion.

It was noon by the time we made it. Much like our experience at Mission Espada, we had Mission Concepcion for ourselves for the duration of our visit. We spent only a few minutes walking through its ruins and the church itself before heading downtown for lunch.

In a city as rich and vibrant as San Antonio, finding the perfect place to have lunch was no challenge. After a short drive, we found ourselves at Market Square. A historic district that celebrates the city’s Mexican heritage and culture, Market Square has cultivated a tradition of community and celebration for generations that has made it a destination for travelers and beloved spot for the local community.

Before finding a restaurant for lunch, we decided to wander through the stalls of El Mercado, an enclosed marketplace akin to a Mediterranean bazaar. The array of colors, shades and hues along El Mercado’s stalls made this place a photographer’s paradise. One store sold alebrijes of blue, green, purple and other colors so bright that they seemed to be alive. Across this store was another that sold pottery whose designs were as appealing as the wood carvings by their side. The aisles were so tight that they forced you to become acquainted with every store and product sold. There were religious statues, clothes, flags and artwork in every possible corner of the building. I have never been to a marketplace that felt more alive.

Hungry, my parents and I waited in line at Mi Tierra, a local favorite and, I will come to learn, one of the best Tex-Mex restaurants in the Lone Star State. And if I did not believe the review, all I had to do was believe the views. No corner of the restaurant had an empty table. Seats were being filled up as quickly as spots for a gut.

The environment was intoxicatingly rich and frenetic. Around me were the shuffling of feet and the shouting of orders. Above me was a constellation of piñatas hanging from the ceiling, their colors as rich and varied as those of the pastries at the restaurant’s panaderia. Ornamented with gold foil, these piñatas gave the room a warm and welcoming glow. Its color was so distinct that I found myself having a hard time placing it. My best estimation considers it to be somewhere between the color of freshly made honey and a field of California poppies in spring bloom. Waiting in that line felt like wading through a dream. My senses were captured and enamored with my surroundings so much so that remembering every detail is, at once, a beautiful and difficult task.

Once seated, we ordered. Craving it for the past week, my father ordered a bowl of pozole while my mother and I opted for tacos and taquitos, respectively. The food was rich and delicious. It was made better, however, by our company.

Eating a meal is one thing. Eating a meal while being serenaded is another. A lunchtime serenade can transform a meal into an experience. Two mariachi duos canvassed the dining hall, taking the time to approach tables and ask them for any requests. My father, noting my mother’s love for Spanish music, paid the musicians to stay at our table for the entire duration of our meal to play some classics — “Cielito Lindo,” “Besame Mucho” and “Sabor a Mi” to name a few.

My mother began to cry happily both at the singers’ skill and my father’s spontaneous, romantic gesture. For a fleeting second, they looked very much like young lovers falling deeper for one another all over again. It was a beautiful moment that taught me two things: I ought to sing more in Spanish and that my father would be a wise source for dating advice. After a very lovely meal, we returned to our hotel for a brief respite before walking into downtown San Antonio.

In the heart of the city resided an old chapel. The trees around it were dark and contemplative. A humble structure, it was made smaller by the hotels and stores that surround it. Painted by the glow of the Texan sun, its walls were a somber beige. Scarred by bullets and battle, its stones tell a story of defiance and resilience. This is the Alamo.

Originally built as a Spanish mission in the early 1700s, its ruins were later fortified in 1836 during the Texas Revolution. Led by Davy Crockett, Jim Bowie and William Travis, the Texans made a last stand against the forces of Mexican general Antonio Lopez de Santa Anna in what would become known as the Battle of the Alamo. This fight would be immortalized in countless books, Hollywood films and the rallying cry “Remember the Alamo.”

It is one thing to read about a place. It is another to walk its grounds. I have no personal attachment to the monument — I am Californian, after all. What made it attractive in my eyes, however, is my overwhelming love for history. This fascination has led to many interesting conversations, including one where I had to explain the Alamo’s significance to a friend of mine who, surprisingly enough, is Texan himself.

It would be easy to imagine, then, that my first impression of the Alamo would consist of wonder or amazement. It was not. The first thing that ran through my mind was at its size. The Alamo was small or, at least smaller than I imagined it to be. I thought that for a place that occupies such an expansive space in the public mind that it would also be large in real life. I was wrong. But the significance of the Alamo lay not in its size, but in its story. To quote the oft-repeated saying, it’s the inside that counts.

It was a Monday afternoon, yet the inside of the Alamo was as busy as Sterling Library during finals season. Docents were at every corner either telling a story about the siege or warning a tourist about the water bottle in their bag. Some visitors were doing audio tours. Others wandered about the nave. Some stood at reflection at its cold, stone walls while others looked at the artifacts on display.

To be honest, I have a fear when visiting landmarks. It is not the ticket prices I am charged or the likelihood I may befriend a phantom from the past. The fear is that I won’t enjoy it. Landmarks are easily popularized to the point that they become commercialized, difficult to fully understand and impossible to experience and marvel at. Granted, there is nothing wrong with a busy crowd walking Pier 39, a ferry full of tourists on the way to Alcatraz or a crowd on the Golden Gate Bridge. Such company makes for a lively atmosphere.

My chief concern is that moments of reflection often become the expense paid for all that excitement. If anything, this fear has led me to appreciate places like national parks or small museums in that they allow me to fully immerse myself in a certain place, its sights and stories. Walking into the Alamo, I feared I would face this problem. Thankfully, I did not. I carved out a moment for myself to think, ponder and reflect, and I left content.

Dinnertime found us on the San Antonio River Walk. Spanning 15 miles, it is a set of paved pathways and pedestrian bridges that flanks and follows the San Antonio River and stretches across the city. The River Walk is a practical and architectural innovation. Regarding the former, it was built to control water levels and protect homes and businesses from flooding. As for the latter, the River Walk was built to combine the currents of the river to its natural beauty. Today, it is a famous attraction and easily became the highlight of my day and, perhaps, my road trip so far.

No visit to San Antonio is complete without taking a riverboat cruise. That being so, we ate dinner and got on a boat. At that point, the sun began to set.

People, especially writers, love to dish out adjectives like “beautiful,” “pretty” or “charming” on the regular so much so that they are reduced to mere platitudes. So, I mean it when I say that sundown on the River Walk is among the most beautiful experiences you can have in America and something everyone should experience at least once in their life.

The chimes of moving silverware rang out from restaurants. Liquor bottles refracted the light of lanterns from riverside bars. Hotels loomed over us, their windows glowing gold to welcome the night. Trees alongside the River Walk, silhouetted by the evening sky, were illuminated by spotlights that clothed their leaves in streaks of blue, green and magenta. The rainbow-colored umbrellas of Casa Rio reflected off the river, turning its rippled surface into a Monet painting. As we glided along the river, our boat captain, instead of singing a Venetian barcarolle, delivered a history of the River Walk and of the buildings on its banks. By the time we returned to our dock, the trees grew darker, and the skies turned a beguiling shade of indigo. The boat ride lasted half an hour but felt as though it lasted much longer.

Just as we began to walk back to our hotel, I caught a final glimpse of the river. It was very much like my mind at that moment — quiet, still and at peace. The light of nearby restaurants danced in the water, its strings and streaks bending and becoming distorted by the infrequent ripple. Just then, another boat caught my eye. Filled with tourists, the boat rolled along. And, for a good long while, I watched it float past a bend, sail under a bridge and move further and further into the darkness of night.

ALEXANDER MEDEL
Alexander Medel is a staff columnist for the WKND desk. His fortnightly travel column, "On the Road," covers his experiences on road trips across America. Originally from San Jose, California, he is a sophomore in Timothy Dwight College majoring in Political Science and History.