Mexicana Psychadelia

Nothing quite tingles the sensory buds like a stroll through the kaleidoscope that is Market Square, San Antonio. On first invitation I was a little weary of braving what was described to me as an area crammed with stalls and food. The thought of trawling through all of this with an alternately wilting and rambunctious three year old under an unforgiving afternoon sun was not my idea of fun. But then, the words covered and air conditioned reared their beautiful heads and I was on the red trolley line quicker than you could say pay-one-dollar- and-a-dime-please-signorita. Enter Cory's friend from home accompanied by her mother and another friend and the three ladies, experienced shoppers took it in turn to lead us around the market and occupy the young Sam. In fact, Tammi's mum, Pat, known to the young as Grandma Pat if you please, formed quite a bond with the young chap. She insisted on keeping him busy whilst I shopped and, after I had purchased a recycled Mayan shirt in its new incarnation as a Colourful bag I was greeted by a small guitar on legs. Sammy's head popped out of one side with a beaming smile to boot. Thank you Grandma Pat. He has not put the thing down since, though every effort on my part for a decent tuning has been aborted and so the tunes are all wonderfully a-tonal...I should give my mate Sting a bell.

My eyes really were popping out of my hard head. Between the day of the dead statues, the metal work mirrors, rows upon rows of Mexican shirts, skirts, hats, belts, Frieda Kalho shopping bags, tiles, ceramics, jewellery. It really was a shoppers playground, especially one with a penchant for bright colours. Along the stalls we also came upon a tiny accordian for all of around $20. It will suit my Sardinian lady's show perfectly. I can't play yet, but I had fun practicing whilst window shopping. Never a better way to detter pushy sales staff. One of whom, gave a lengthy description of why I ought to visit his shop. 'Cept it was in Spanish. It took both of us a second to realise that there was a language barrier. My skin is changing colour you see, chameleon like I am trying to blend in to the town, though in truth I still look more Iranian medical student than Mexican signorita. One colourful cloth bag ain't gonna cut it. Back we returned on the trolley once again, bumping up off our seats at the back. Sam-boy deep in a heart to heart with Grandma Pat on the whys and wherefores of Thomas the train and swimming pools.

Which is where we decompressed this afternoon. 2nd floor. Pool. Relief. I had had a successful shopping trip you see. I have finally found suitable swimming attire, and, though I am the first to say I look more like Esther William's chubby older sister than Gina in her full glory I will admit that feeling dressed up to go for a dip is much more fun than feeling half naked. Its a polka dot number, more of a little dress than a lycra wotsit. Suits my imaginary world just fine. I had had a few hours to myself whilst the boys ran themselves ragged at the children's museum and our guests trawled the antique emporiums. They had treated us to breakfast at the renowned Menger Hotel. Another beautiful relic, at its centre a two tiered atrium, be-colomned with the fading beauty of a Southern Belle. It had the ever so faint whiff of decay, and, inside the breakfast room, past the pictures of the same space in its black and white hey days, there was that familiar sense of the wrong end of old-fashioned so common in many sea side towns at home. It wasn't quite Fawlty Towers or anything. Certainly quite a few ghosts roaming around is all.

Apparently there are funny things going on in our hotel too. Tonight, for the shear sado-masochistic love of it all, Ry, who is playing the creature in the show, is staying in The Room, in hopes of meeting other creatures. On check-in, one of our company managers noticed that his clock was counting downwards and twice, his door swung open, even though he had shut it. Its the kind of door that needs a card swiped in order to open. On both occasions there was nobody visible, or audible in either direction of the corridor. Turns out the room opposite to his has had so many funny goings on that the staff no longer rent it out. When Ry requested it, they politely informed him that it is not usually for guests. He explained that he was fully aware of the situation. I will drill him tomorrow.

All this after I have taken our boy to The Match. Yes sirs, tomorrow will see England beat the USA "team" (sorry, I couldn't resist). After which, boy and I will strut down the San Antonio streets waving our flag, his face painted regulation shades and donning his prized England uniform. Trouble is, I really do think he utterly believes that he will actually be playing the match. On the TV. Live. He has told his grandma so, many, many times. I hope spectatorship will be just as exciting. If not, there's always potato chips. Crisps I mean. Oh no, it's happening, I'm loosing my roots....Not up top, they are definitely showing my age.

Luckily, whilst working on the show Hounded, first of 13 episodes aired today on CBBC, the kind hair designer fixed me up with more than a dozen wigs to suit the thirteen different characters I played, each belonging in parallel universes. Think of Saved by the Bell meets Dr Who and you are almost a quarter there. It was written by the comedy writers at the BBC and everyone has high hopes for it. I scrambled the internet to see what was being said about it, if anything, and was overjoyed to find a quick mention at the end of one article, informing readers that the "youngsters" Colin Ryan and Eva Alexander make appearances. Ego basking in the light of fairytale people. Youngsters. You gotta love it.

So here I am, about to spruce up our home for our guest this evening. Another friend from Cory's home town, who now lives an hour away form here that I had met some years back in New York City. Cool cat.

I type, briefly reminiscing about the crazy salon I stepped into for some facial maintenance, and the large transexual who brightly greeted me and the peroxide blonde voluptuous woman who performed the torture, I mean waxing, pressing her belly and bosoms into my clavical to reach over, all the while telling me about her boyfriend. It was the first time I had had my eyebrows brushed before being pruned. With a full size comb. Perhaps I shouldn't leave it so long next time. On the chair next to me, the original greeter washing a young guys hair was listening to him detail the demise of his relationship with his boyfriend because of new love found on the internet. Behind the heavy heavy foundation, but a hint of stubble poking through, the greeter made suitably sympathetic noises whilst carrying out the washing with the industrious speed of a locomotive. Now that's what I call a girlie afternoon folks.

Tomorrow there is the promise of a proper good ole Mexican fry-up for breakkers. We will be showing our friend the mugshots we took of ourselves dressed up as cowboys down at the arcade. Yes we succumbed. All for the purposes of the blog of course you understand. Hopefully he'll still stay the night and take us to his favourite haunt tomorrow. Oh geesh, that word again, and its almost the witching hour too....

East of Crockett, North on Alamo

Last night as I attempted to sort through the messy thoughts on my novel a thunder storm raged over head. At one point - at a vital narrative juncture in the story I might add - the lights flickered on and off, the television following suit, though I am positive I never had it switched on in the first place. I am surprised the boy did not even stir, it sounded like the roof was cracking in two. This morning, after boy and I watched a patch of the plaster about a foot in diameter crash to the ground in the living room (we were at the opposite end of the room at the time) we learnt from the maintenance man that the storm had severed power in various places downtown, including our hotel.

San Antonio is a world away from Houston in all senses. In the first few hours after we arrived we had driven past palm trees, sweltered in the balmy evening and been accompanied by the friendly Anna to our palatial suite. There are havana style shutters on the bathroom window. A large table big enough for a six people poker game. A sofa, two armchairs, sideboards. Space. We pinched ourselves several times. The air is hot, heavy and wet. Almost tropical. People swagger more than walk down the street. There is something lingering in the air of another time. I heard more Spanish being spoken in that first afternoon than English.

We broke up the journey from not so pretty Houston, with a stop in Schulenberg. I haven't tired of the delight I feel when I come across a town name so obviously north european placed in a part of the world whose climate is as far away from Germany or the Czech republic as you can get. And yet, as we turned into the crossroads that is downtown Schulenberg on each corner stood different shades of northern european descent. A sausage meat market run by a man with a Polish surname, a german bakery and a czech "emporium". In we stopped for a home made sausage and beef brisket drenched in barbecue sauce, which was quickly followed by a tour from Wayne, the butcher, who proudly lead us out back to his barbecue pits. It smelt smokey and familiar and was spotlessly clean. I remember a farm in Sardinia that smelt exactly the same, only difference they had been smoking ricotta not meat. As we ate, folk came in to trade over the old wooden marble topped counter. Most were quite obviously regulars. With deliciously salty barbecued goodies ensconced in bellies we nipped across the road for a slightly disappointing cream pie. I think nothing will ever match up to great-aunt Evelyn's version back in Wisconsin. A good pie maker needs at least 60 years of practice methinks. To facilitate digestion we peeked about the antique emporium next door, where a lady turned to us as we left with a "y'all come back and see y'hear?" Only if we intend to buy AR-15s from Wayne, I thought to myself, who had a paper stuck to his sausage chiller cabinet announcing they were in stock. On we drove passed Geronimo and Woman Hollering Creek. I did. She didn't. Must have been on lunch.

Arriving into San Antonio, with barely any petrol, we were immediately struck by how narrow the streets are downtown. A trolley bus passed us, much to the delight of boyo, and we quickly found the Gunther Hotel. Plaques abound the lobby, replete with memorabilia and photos of its hey day including a huge operator's telephone exchange, used until 1979. San Antonians seem a proud, culturally vibrant lot. We took to the river walk almost immediately to meet the troupe for a day off dinner. We sat outside, in the balmy night air, sipping margaritas and watching our waiter make fresh guacamole at our table. His expression just beyond caring, but the end product tasted good. The service really made you feel like you were in a hot country. It was unhurried to say the very least, and we didn't care a jot. Remember I have been trained in Sardinia, where, in the 80s as tourism was but a struggling seedling over there, you would literally be reprimanded by management (loudly with passionate gesticulation) if too many of you ordered fried calamari because it would short circuit the electrics. Then you would wait about an hour for it to get to your table. They probably were fishing it. That'll learn you for eating too much fat.

Sammy held court with his favourite actors who took it in turns to show him around, wash his hands, introduce him to the two latino ladies on the table next to us, aged 3 and 4. Usual thing. The next day Krista, for whom the boy has developed a serious attachment, offered to play with him poolside whilst Cory and I celebrated our anniversary. Tykey couldn't believe his luck. Krista all to himself! No sharing with mum and dad! Score! Meanwhile we tucked into an unhurried seafood feast on the river....

A block away from our pad are stone steps that take you down it. It is narrow, and quite shallow, looking more like a canal and protected by an advanced system of flood and drainage protection. Its banks are lined with restaurants and shops, the winding pavements taking you under picture perfect stone bridges and past an abundance of fresh fauna, succulents, palms and other tropical lushness. To our left we passed a beautiful hotel, looking like it had been shipped in from Seville, each room with a french windowed balcony and tall backed wooden chairs on them much like the sort my grandmother used to have. The man who designed the area back in the late 30s early 40s had intended to create a place that would be a mix of Venice and New Orleans. The desired outcome has been beautifully achieved. People saunter along the rivers edge and take rides on wide barges for a potted history of the city.

That's where we were today, under the post lunchtime sun, listening to our captain's humorous journey through San Antonio. Somewhat disconcerting were the barely audible mutterings amplified by his headset mic that he drifted into in between stories. Cory pulled a face. I hoped he was not recovering from a post traumatic disorder seeing as he was eager to tell us when we boarded that he had been stationed in Essex twice with the forces. Never underestimate the psychological repercussions of living in Essex my friends.

The thing that will stay with me the most from our sailing down the water, apart from the picturesque entry into La Villitta where on one side of the river is a small stage facing mini stone raked seating on the opposite, is the fact that the restoration of the river area was mostly to do with a group of women who formed a conservation group back in the 1920s and whose vision was the propelling force for what we can enjoy today. They are still an incredibly strong group and are solely responsible for making this city one which fiercely preserves its history and unique antiquity. When the Mariott wanted to build they insisted that the 1920s landmark on the ground which they sought to develop was protected. The developers moved the entire building to be closer to the river in order to carry out their modern project. For the developers of the Hyatt it was a similar story. Te conservationists refused to grant permission for their high rise, because, they said, it would cast a shadow over the Alamo at sunset eclipsing it's picturesque glory. What a marked contrast to the rampaging newness of Houston.

At the end of the tour there was indeed only one thing to do. Put our sweaty feet one in front of the other, turn onto East Crockett street and head for the Alamo. I think I have taken enough pictures of it to satisfy my father's obsession with all things cowboy. It really is a beautiful shrine. Within its walls, manicured gardens fresh with prickly pear fruiting cacti, flowering palms, enormous succulents and immaculate lawns. Fountains trickle, coin confetti sunk down on the watery stone. It has an eery stillness to the place despite the hustle bustle of the tourists, and there were plenty of them. What a world away from the America we have seen so far. Here, in the shade of the sand time worn stone I begin to comprehend the sheer rampaging history of the place. The breadth and depth of the diverse cultures, so very alive here, and proudly celebrated. What a treat to be able to stand amongst this. Soak it up.

I asked the maintenance man this morning, as Sam and I watched him peel off more of the plaster from the ceiling, why he loved his town so. He pin pointed the diversity of the place and the way in which each of its converging cultures has a voice, a place, a home. I asked him how he deals with the humidity (my clothes have not dried in three days hung up) and he gives a little shrug and a chuckle. He tells me that in winter the frigid cold that rolls in from the gulf and is trapped by the texan hills beyond the city is just as damp. I tell him this city will never be my home but that it is mighty pretty. He chuckles again. Then he tells me that the man who plasters is in Cancun till Friday. No matter. I'm liking the crumbling Havana in august sort of look to the place. I pretend I am a writer under house arrest secretly churning out stories to maintain her sanity. At least one part of that statement is close to the truth

Speaking of sanity, I received a package the other week. On it was stamped "INSANITY". Yes sirs, for the purposes of the blog you understand, I am now a graduate of P90X. To you and me this means, my jeans are moderately less tight, though my triceps are still barely visible, and therefore to maintain my experiment in American fitness I have thrown myself into, well Insanity. Never a truer word written. Picture a hip hop star with a group of lithe folk behind him doing moves like you have pressed fast forward and play button at the same time and you are half way there. I caught myself in the mirror the other day doing jumping jacks at their speed and had to pause the DVD for some serious belly laughter at that jiggly reflection huffing and puffing back at me. After almost two weeks of the regime the boys are getting used to me shakliy exiting the bedroom looking like a cross between half cooked lobster and a seal. Listen, you've got to counter act the tex mex grub somehow. There's only so much guacamole and margaritas a girl can consume before they start to consume her.

No storms tonight. Only me, our palace, the plastic yuccas and the humid night ahead of us. Clean up tomorrow for a visit from a childhood friend of Cory's now living here. There may be tea involved, and post show drinks and snacks back at the suite later. It really is a very very tough life. I will soldier on, displaying the courage and determination of those Alamo folk.

All the trinkets and t-shirts this afternoon kept reminding me to "never forget The Alamo". One thing is sure, I will never forget San Antonio.