First morning at Casa Suk I awoke and enjoyed coffee and a banana, a pleasant change from the snack bar sandwiches from the day before, still weighing heavily on the insides.
A trip to the missions was in order today. Having been to The Alamo the last time I came through, we proceeded south for a brief visit of Mission Concepción before continuing on down to Mission San José. Mission San Jose's church was intact, but the outer walls had been dismantled in the early 1880s by locals and used to create their domiciles, not unlike the unsheathing of the Giza Pyramids of their smooth limestone exteriors centuries ago.
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We watched a twenty minute movie about the history of the missions. I nodded through most, as did Tom, but in fairness he and Barb had seen it a few times already. The tour itself was somewhat interesting, I however was more focused on eye candy for the camera. Our park ranger guide was a comely lass from Arizona, whom Barbara appraised well against other guides of previous visits, but had noted her propensity for using the word 'actually.'
The day was sunny and warm and we toured the mission for some time before heading north for the long drive home. For supper, Barb fixed up some sausage with peppers on hoagie buns, with steak fries and a cucumber salad. We all finished the evening watching DVDs while Tom and I quaffed from his cache of High Life and took the bottle of Templeton Rye down a few notches. Get Shorty was the first disc spun that evening followed by Alexander the Great, a campy, over-the-top 1950's period piece with Richard Burton chewing up the title role in a blond wig. It was late and the hammy story line took its toll. Tom was well off in the land of nod and I was not far behind. We gave the DVD a rest and went to bed. We never did finish the rest of the movie.
Next morning fueled with coffee and Coco Krispies we went downtown to shop the Mercado. The items for sale were interesting enough, yet fairly standard for the tourista trade. I did share a praline with Barbara and chowed on a gordita filled with beans, cheese, lettuce and tomato.
When lunch time came Tom wanted to find a place with outdoor seating and tamales and Barb wanted something with mole. We first tried the most popular place on the Mercado, Mi Tierra, but the outdoor seating was dominated by the overbearing sounds of a Peruvian pan flute band playing Beatles covers, so we retreated to try our hand at La Margarita down the block.
The waiting list there was about fifteen minutes so we all bellied up to the bar for refreshments. These eateries were all very touristy, packed to the gills with customers, and dominated by loud music. Mariachi music I enjoy very much, but not at noise levels where one can only have a conversation by shouting. I told Tom and Barb that if I were flying solo I'd have already been out the door for less garish alternatives. They agreed and so we bolted before the bartender ever got a chance to serve us.
Once free from the assault on the senses, we killed the remaining time on the parking meter at an art museum and a stroll through the Spanish Governor's Palace, which was abuzz with activity. Chica Girl magazine was staging a photo shoot in the residence, with all the associated lights, cameras, props, photographers, grips and models.
Away from the Mercado and the Plaza, we drove back up north to a local favorite eatery called La Hacienda de Los Barrios, a lovely place located out in the middle of Antonian suburbia, off the main drags and easy to miss. But once you pull off the road, the oasis that it is unfolds. The interior was exceptional airy, but muted in soft shadows. The outdoor deck seating area was immense but intimate, nestled amongst live oak that provided both shade and ambiance. The staff was friendly and quick with Shiner Bock and our aqua con limon. They even offered samples of their sauces and moles for the uninitiated.
I begged off the sample and dived straight into a plate of Enchiladas Mexicanas filled with a crumbly queso fresco and smothered in a dark chile sauce dominated by poblanos. Bueno! Barb found her mole, a sweet, chocolaty gravy laded over generously filled chicken Enchiladas Poblanas, and Terrible Tom — well I'll just have to call him Tamale Tom from now on — ordered up a plate of beef tamales covered in chili con carne that in color and consistency reminded by of the chili sauce ladled up by George the Chili King on Hickman Road in Des Moines. I throughly enjoyed my enchiladas but found myself coveting Suk's plate.
The turistas in their overpriced straw hats parading around with woven plastic bags full of authentic Mexican wares made in China can have their noisy, tawdry eateries. La Hacienda was a superior experience all around, and still able to cater to the whims of the bourgeoisie.
However, if I were on my own, wandering the streets of downtown San Antonio, I would have gone to Panchito's Downtown a few doors down from the Spanish Governor's Palace. I don't have a clue about the grub, but seeing from the hours that they cater to a breakfast and lunch crowd of office workers, I've got a feeling it would have been a good experience. Just get there before they close at 2pm. We didn't.
The last night in San Antonio ended well, and not so well, seated around the TV watching the Sox beat the Rays over sandwiches and chips. I bowed out around the seventh wanting to catch some much needed sleep before awakening at 4:30am the next morning. Sleep, however, did not come easy. I must feel like I'm home already.
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After a sleepless night I got to the station at six and boarded about forty minutes later.
My ticket was for room 20 aboard the Transitional Sleeper just behind the engine. However my car attendant indicated that 20 was full so I should go to room 17 instead. I got to 17 only to find it already occupied. So I went over to the next car back where the attendant was tending to needs over there, explained my predicament and was told to go to 18. Well, guess what? 18 was occupied too. So after some harried adjustments I got room 23.
I got myself situated and checked out my surroundings. Unfortunately the upstairs toilet is located right next to my berth, so I am so looking forward to this evening's activities.
Then when I went to get some coffee for which none was made, I found out that breakfast today would not be a hot meal, but a to-go pack of raisin bran, blueberry muffin, berry yogurt, fruit cup and Schlepp's lowfat milk. Schlepp is the name of the dairy from Dallas that produced the milk. I think 'schlepp' must also be Yiddish for 'screw you!' And to add insult to injury, I had no utensil to shovel this cold drivel into my slaking maw.
Eventually I got my spoon, I did eat all that was provided, and it was acceptable. But it was not eggs, grits and bacon. I pay an exorbitant for creature comforts and along with being able to sleep flat and in solitude, and I expect to get a hot breakfast. I've said it before, Amtrak needs to offer a discount for folks who would rather opt out for the three square meals in the forced company of strangers. But since that's not an option, give me my damn eggs, grits and bacon!
Had a smoke break and crew change in Austin. Also the folks who will be staffing the dining car boarded here as well. It appears they are let off prior to San Antonio to get a night's rest at a local hotel instead of having to go all the way to San Antonio for a much abbreviated break. I also seem to remember that the cold breakfast on the Texas Eagle heading north is pretty much standard procedure. I feel less loathing, but I sure would have snagged some breakfast burritos on the way down to the station if I had remembered. In fact, I did do that a few years ago, procuring burritos from an eatery at the Sunset Station entertainment complex located train-side. Today, being a Sunday, it would not have been an option.
Had a fellow who walked along the length of train waving a Texas flag proudly, with the other hand raised alternating between a raised index finger and the 'fist of rock', with both index and pinky fingers upright. I snapped some pics and he continued on down the line and pontificated with some coach passengers enjoying their smoke break.
Lunch was an unmitigated disaster. My table's orders were misplaced so we had to reorder our selections. In the wait, I decided to add the vegetarian spring rolls to my cheese enchilada entrée for an extra cost, and I could get change back for a tip in the process. I know it's a rough job trying to work tables on the train, and was willing to cut some slack. Eventually I got the enchiladas which were unexpectedly good for train fare, but came with no sides. I finished them off in no time, but the spring rolls never came out by the time I was free to slide out of my window-side prison. I passed on getting the spring rolls. I passed on the dessert which would have not incurred an extra charge. And I passed on leaving a tip, something which I loathe to do.
There's something liberating about going coach. You don't have the cost of prepared meals as part of your fare, so you're free to pack your own grub or grab something lousy and overpriced from the snack bar. In sleeper you feel compelled to eat what's offered, within the limits of what you can stomach from the menu, because you've paid for it. If you opt out of the sit down meal, you're screwed for the cost you've been charged, and screwed again if you fork up for the snack bar grub.
Oh, for a plate of chili con carne tamales.
The train though is running exceptionally swift, with plenty of time for the smokers to light up along the way. I'd almost rather have it running late, very late. Anything to miss my van in Springfield and have Amtrak put me up for the night in downtown Chicago. My first day back at work would suck even more than it will coming back as normally scheduled, but maybe, just maybe, someone of note would lament my extra day away. But likely not.
Fort Worth coming up.
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Chicago could do better to incorporate the CTA 'L' trains into its Union Station service.
Even now I'm contemplating bypassing an overnight in Ottumwa, and have someone come down and snag me from Osceola. A full day in my home, alone, before going back to the slaving meat wheel would be welcome. The money saved for the bus ride back I'd plow into dinner for both. Any other takers?
But gas prices of late certainly do discourage such impulsive runs. Down here in Dallas/Fort Worth I've seen regular as low as $2.49. I imagine that's not the case in Iowa. Unless the powers at be have granted such favor to sway public opinion coming into the last weeks of the presidential campaign. Bread in the form of cheaper gasoline to fill our bellies, and the struggling stock market as our circus to keep our minds occupied. Fed, but cowed. A Caesar of Roman times could do no better.
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| Photos from the Picasa Web Albums: San Antonio and Texas Eagle & Galesburg | |
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