Walking the Beat

"Today will be a walking day," said Andy, as we parked Little Red in the lot on Presa Street. "We're going to do all of Paseo del Rio, River Walk."
"That's miles," I noted.
"Yup," was all he said. We headed for an entrance on Alamo Street, past the Unification Statue that stood high against the nearly cloudless sky. Taking the west arm of the T on Paseo del Rio, we walked the half mile to HemisFair Park. Workmen swept and brushed and trimmed in the early morning at the 750-foot Tower of the Americas, where visitors can pay for a spectacular view of San Antonio. Unlike the crowds on Martin Luther King Jr. Day, today we were the only tourists. The site of the 1968 World's Fair celebrated the "confluence" of the Americas. The extensive park with elaborate fountains, pools and sculptures included La Puerta: Mi Casa Es Tu Casa, a sculpture by Diana Calvillo de Chapa, a gift from San Antonio's sister city, Monterey, Mexico.

Returning to the river, we strolled 1.3 miles along the east arm of the T as the sun and temperatures climbed. A tour boat named Miss "Babe" Davis chugged by on the water. The guide announced, "Last week we clean all the canals. The water was drained and workers scoured the bottom. What do you think we found?" Several passengers called out ideas. "Well, number one was silverware." Murmurs of surprise drifted from on board. "Second was sunglasses, and third, cell phones." Several people laughed with understanding. My hand automatically drifted to the cell phone lump in my jeans pocket. "We don't have the actual results from this year, but cell phones are in the running for top spot," he told his audience.

We kept walking.

"You know what really impresses me is the cleanliness, the lack of graffiti," I told Andy.
"It's probably policed well," he said. "This is the drawing card for this convention city. They take good care of Paseo del Rio. That, and any graffiti they DO get, is covered immediately. You saw the mess that resulted at home when graffiti on the highway was left untouched. It just engendered more."

I had to agree.

We walked as far as Ninth Street and Argrove Street, past the remains of Hugman Dam. Named for the man who first advocated for a River Walk in the early 1900's, the small stone works seemed minuscule when measured against the power of a river. Architect of the waterway system in 1929, Robert H.H. Hugman's plan, delayed by the Depression, took shape beginning in 1939. The walks have been expanded in recent years. Beyond the remains of Hugman Dam we reached the locks of today.

"Why in the world does San Antonio need locks?" I asked.

"Tourist attraction," Andy suggested. "Maybe an earmark project that would draw interest to this city. It IS a convention center."

Returning the 1.3 miles on the opposite river bank, we started south along the canal loop.

"I'm looking for a Starbucks to sit for coffee," said Andy around noon. We found a spot on the outdoor second floor patio across from Dick's Last Resort, an outdoor restaurant with brightly colored picnic tables. Entertainment enfolded before us. A waiter from Dick's stood on the railing, behind foremost. Wearing white briefs on top of his blue jeans, he wiggled his butt. Lettering on the briefs said, I love to fart. People stopped and laughed, but no one sat down for lunch. A tour boat glided past. All the passengers waved and laughed. Waiter wiggled and cameras flashed. Finally, he lay down on the path, butt up; passersby stepped over him.

"The fact that no one is there for lunch says something," I told Andy.

The County Line, a barbecue restaurant just below us, had every table filled. Waiters in aprons dashed back and forth with plates of barbecued ribs and baskets of fries. Across the river the waiter gave up his "bottoms up" act and disappeared inside.

"He probably appeals more to a happy hour crowd," suggested Andy.

As we sipped our coffee and snacked on apple fritters, eight sparrows alighted on the nearby branch, then the railing, then our table to beg for tidbits.

"Go," waved Andy, "I'm not sharing." Eventually they got the message.

We walked on, following the loop for a couple more miles and looking at the mosaic murals, the cleaning barge dragging nets to catch debris in the water, the people casually enjoying the 70-degree afternoon, the gardener clipping dead twigs, the police officer following his beat.

Before we called it a day, we walked back to the Alamo. This time only a few tourists milled around the museum and grounds of the historical shrine. "Isn't it amazing that of the 200 who died at the hands of Santa Anna at the Alamo, only ten were identified as citizens from Texas?" commented Andy.

A couple from Virginia noticed Andy's Virginia Tech sweatshirt and my University of Vermont tee shirt. "That's my $85,000 shirt," joked Andy. He pointed to my shirt, "And that's her $100,000 tee shirt."

"Our son went to the University of Virginia," said the lady, "and we lived near Burlington, Vermont."

"We just retired," said Andy.

"We haven't retired, but we want to. We need to sell the building that houses our business first, but we left our son watching the store," explained the man.
"Small world! How ironic," I thought. "Our son is keeping house back in Connecticut," I told them.

But then again, so much of what we have done for 17 weeks seems incongruous and yet appropriate... like walking in shirt sleeves along a meandering river during mid-January.