I had always wanted to tour the San Antonio missions but never had the chance.  There are five Spanish frontier missions dating back to the 18th century:  the Mission Espada, Mission San Juan, Mission San Jose, Mission Concepcion, and of course who could not remember the Alamo.  The mild December weather lent itself perfect for walking.  Pictured here is Mission San Francisco de la Espada.  It is the oldest of the East Texas missions moved to the San Antonio river and I love the front with its three bells and cross at the top.  Known as “the Queen of the Missions”, Mission San Jose is the largest and was almost completely restored to its original design in the 1930’s by the Works Projects Administration.  At least three of these are designated UNESCO World Heritage Sites.  My love of churches does not prevent my loathing of how Native American Indians were “converted.”  I agree with American Christian minister Robert H. Schuller’s belief in which he once said:

“A mission is a place where you ask nonbelievers to come and find faith and hope and feel love.”

Despite the fact that these are now historical landmarks and no longer active churches, vestiges of sanctity can still be felt in the lingering whisper of shadows on the adobe and stone walls.  I hope our working churches today are a tangible reflection of Jesus Christ’s divine love … God made manifest in man; linking the eternal with the temporal.  Our mission to see the missions made for a lovely and interesting day.  Mission complete.

With the exception of my folks coming to see me in Padre Island when I was in the Miss Texas USA pageant, this was the first place I’d ever been with my family on vacation.  The drive down from Dallas wasn’t too bad and we were staying on the river.  Oh we were so excited!  We started a tradition of eating at Casa Rio, the Tex Mex place right on the riverwalk with all the colored umbrellas and the oldest restaurant on the river.  We had some great times in San Antonio and developed some favorite haunts.  There is shopping in the historic arts village of La Villita as well as The Little Church of La Villita established in 1879.  It is charming and has beautiful stained glass of a cross at its altar.  Speaking of glass, there used to be an older man there who had incredible blown glass and you could still watch him make it.  He charged a dime to get in and WOE to anyone who did not pay it.  Then there is the mercado for more shopping and no trip would be complete without dining at Mi Tierra in the Market Square.  Open for more than 70 years, they never close!  Each room is festively decorated and there are woven baskets covering the ceiling, lights strung across the bar, and colorful murals everywhere.  But this was the first time Burk or I had ever been around Christmas.  American minister Norman Vincent Peale said:

“Christmas waves a magic wand over this world, and behold, everything is softer and more beautiful.”

And it was.

When I think of Santa Fe, one thing which comes to mind is hanging chili peppers.  They’re iconic.  The Hatch chili is an integral staple of New Mexican cuisine.  In fact, the official New Mexico vegetable is the chili pepper.  The official state question is, “Red or green?”; I happen to prefer “Christmas” since I can never decide and that way I get both.  People seem to have a varying sense of which is hotter.  Personally I find them both mild, but then I like things really hot and spicy.  They are not only grown in Hatch, New Mexico but all along the Rio Grande — from the Taos Pueblo in the north to the Isleta Pueblo in the south.  On one trip with my mother after Daddy had passed an Indian man selling chilis introduced me to “chasing” pistachios with fresh ground chili pepper by scooping some up in part of the shell.  I was hooked!  Another thing I wish I could have shared with Daddy was Chimayo.  Specifically the Sanctuario De Chimayo.  About 30 minutes north of Santa Fe, the historical community is known as the “Lourdes of North America” and is one of the most sacred pilgrimages on the continent.  People journey from all over the world for the holy soil which has been reported to work miracles on all sorts of ailments minor and major.  It is built on what legend has said is a sacred Native American site.  Many come praying for a miracle.  I will never forget seeing a Navajo man in a wheelchair with one blue leg (presumably about to be lost from diabetes) praying there.  I remember feeling so humbled and turning my selfish prayers instead to him.  There is also a great restaurant there called Rancho de Chimayo.  It is magical to dine out on their sprawling, terraced patio under the stars.  Nestled in the magestic Sangre de Cristo mountains in piñon covered hills, there is simply no place quite like it.  There used to be a huge, fat cat there that roamed the terrace searching out food but s/he was so picky s/he eschewed anything but sopapillas with fresh honey.  The English writer W. L. George once said:

“Cats know how to obtain food without labor, shelter without confinement, and love without penalties.”

It seemed to me that’s what this clever kitty had mastered  … and in the purrfect place.

Feeling the seasons change was different.  Perhaps it would not have held the twinge of sadness without my father.  But I discovered new things like the Santa Fe flea market and a haunt where the locals went.  “Tecolote” (owl) was this great place where blue corn posole met old fashioned white biscuits and gravy.  It PAINS me to say it is no longer open, as I absolutely adored their breakfast!  The whole place was filled with 1970’s era owls  — from macramé planters to ceramics.  Since I collect wolves I could appreciate all the varying types of tecolotes which must have taken years to collect.  It was not just colorful and fun; their food was old-school fantastic.  My husband says the “flea market” used to be great: a somewhat gritty, true, authentic flea market.  Over the years he says it became very sanitized and more like an outdoor outlet from some of the major shops in town.  But it was still fun to peruse and it had a great view of the opera house when it was still open air.  American fashion designer Anna Sui said this:

“I love going to flea markets especially when I am traveling, because I love seeing the stuff of other cultures, handicrafts and things with historical content.”

Santa Fe offers the perfect mix of cultures, handicrafts, and history; a one of a kind city in the United States; truly the “City Different.”

I had been to Santa Fe, New Mexico two glorious times while my father was still living.  Daddy would always sit on the park bench while Mama and I went around the plaza and shopped.  Everyone assumed he was local and the Indian community there was always eager to visit with him.  He looked so handsome in his Indian bolo ties and they truly were the best trips we ever got to take as a family.  So I was well acquainted with Santa Fe when we went to see Burk’s mother and stepfather, who live there.  My family had only gone in August and this was in October.  It started cold and gloomy but it was nice to still enjoy a piñon fire in the rain.  Then the sun broke through and I snapped this picture.  The foliage looked different in the first blush of autumn than it did in summer’s last rays.  There was a hollowness being there without my parents but I thought about the cycles of time and tried to enjoy this new one.  I do not want to gloss over some of Santa Fe’s greatest treasures, as I realize many who are reading this live abroad and have not been.  First, it is a true walking town, centered around a plaza built by the Spanish in 1610, making it the oldest state capital city in the United States.  Note I did not say the city of Holy Faith was “founded” then; as native inhabitants had already dwelt there for centuries.  French Roman Catholic Archbishop Jean-Baptiste Lamy built the St. Francis Cathedral dedicated to the city’s patron saint, St. Francis of Assisi.  It resides prominently just off the square and is the mother church of the archdiocese of Santa Fe.  My favorite church is San Miguel, just a few minutes’ walk from the plaza.  It has the honor of being the oldest U.S. church in continual use — since 1610.  It’s thick adobe walls and bell tower beckon one to come in and pray.  Another church integral to Santa Fe history is the Loretto Chapel built in 1878.  It stands at the end of the Santa Fe Trail just outside the plaza.  Fashioned after my beloved Sainte Chapelle in Paris — my favorite chapel in the world, it is due to its exquisite stained glass.  The ornate stained glass for the Loretto Chapel made the journey from Paris to New Orleans via ship and then by paddle boat to Saint Louis.  It was then taken by covered wagon over the old Santa Fe Trail to the Chapel:  quite a feat in 1610.  It also contains a Miraculous Staircase which I shall write about at some point.  Scottish travel writer Robert Lewis Stevenson once said:

“I never weary of great churches.  It is my favorite kind of mountain scenery.  Mankind was never so happily inspired as when it made a cathedral.”

Having been to Santa Fe quite a few times, this is simply a brief introductory of one of my favorite cities:  the City Different, with mountains and churches; Indians and pueblos; red chilis and blue corn, and a wealth of history and art.

I got to thinking about roots on this Athens trip … both familial and arborilogical.  They were all around us:  in street names and lake bottoms; in “I knew your Grandmother” and in the damp earth of twisting vines along creek beds.  Not everyone is fortunate enough to know their genealogical roots.  And I have come to realize even if they do it may not mean much, as some families are not close.  I have thought a lot over the years about nature versus nurture.  I believe they both have merit and frankly I’m not sure which has more sway in the end.  This next day my husband gave me a tour of the Texas Freshwater Fisheries Center.  Honestly, I thought it was going to be a bunch of men in overalls trying to extract poor fish from a barrel.  To my somewhat chagrined surprise and utter delight, it was also a place of learning promoting the wise use and conservation of Texas’ natural resources.  They had a wetlands trail emphasizing the ecology and interrelationships among aquatic habitats.  It was fascinating.  I never knew the importance of brackish water before this exhibit, with 300,000 gallons of aquaria and other exhibits allowing for the study of native Texas fish in their natural environment.  Here we were in this small town and a jewel was discovered.  They had HUGE catfish practically the size of our wolf cubs and the knowledge junkies in us thought it more of a living/working museum.  So back to nature versus nurture.  American writer Sam Kean said:

“The more that I looked at DNA, the more I realized it was nature and nurture.  It’s how genes and your environment work together to produce the person you are.”

I have always thought my husband was the overlooked gem, much like this center we had just toured.  I am glad to be the one that gets to nurture his nature; just as he nurtures mine.  It’s all in our roots.

My husband has family history in Athens.  He is not Greek; rather Texan.  His paternal side has a place in East Texas and we went for a short visit.  A couple of hours later outside of town majestic looking trees lined both sides of the road and escorted us on our drive.  We came to a place where my husband stopped to call the caretaker to please open the gate.  As we entered our tires ground a gritty hush along the dirt road and I tried to absorb the peacefulness of it all.  There was a sort of slowing I savored as he showed me around.  I liked the older wooden deck where water peaked out from between tall, spindly trees.  Pictured here is the lake just before sunset.  Then nature’s shroud of darkness surrounded us and we looked up to marvel in wonder at the brightness of the stars.  It was autumn and the crisp scent of pines was gentle in the chilly night air.  As I gazed out I realized how blessed we were to have access to such quiet beauty.  I almost did not want to go inside because I could not seem to drink in enough of the stillness that settled like a mantle over the woods.

“But especially he loved to run in the dim twilight of the summer midnights, listening to the subdued and sleepy murmurs of the forest, reading signs and sounds as a man may read a book, and seeking for the mysterious something that called—called, waking or sleeping, at all times, for him to come.” ~ Jack London, The Call of the Wild

The call of the wild has always beckoned me.  I believe true fortune rests on those lucky enough to “own” a piece of it:  wealth not in a huge house or haute couture; rather in the unfettered delight of the company of trees with all of their companions.  Money and travel are certainly blessings, but knowing the value of and preserving creation’s God-given glory in my opinion is priceless.

This was our last day in Antigua and I was somewhat sad to go home.  The hotel itself was a sheltered haven from the outside world.  I found myself looking forward to each evening as the myriad of lit candles lent the place an air filled with history, holiness and mystery.  My favorite was the hotel’s religious history.  As if the place could not get any better, it houses several museums.  The Colonial Museum contains works produced during the 16th, 17th, and 18th centuries into the beginning of the 19th century.  Among the displays are religious paintings, wooden sculptures in the form of angels, saints, and more and also silver pieces such as lecterns, chalices, and monstrances.  My second favorite was their Archeology Museum.  It contains an ancient treasure trove of ceramic and stone objects in the form of vessels, thuribles, and other ceremonial items found from the Classic Period of the Mayan Culture, from 200 to 900 AD.  An oft overlooked small Pharmacy Museum was fascinating, with porcelain, glass, marble, and bronze pieces that were once part of private collections and of course were used to store medicinal products.  Once again I will confess I absolutely detest modern art, so I cannot write anything about the contemporary “artist” halls other than I found them incongruous — much like I. M. Pei’s glass pyramid that decimates the old beauty of the Louvre.  Fortunately my husband feels the same way so we did not spend any time on it.  Lastly, we visited their Silver Museum which contains samples of the Sacatepequez arts and old handcrafted traditions of the region’s people.  The picture I chose is a simple one.  But it is how the whole place looked every night; old stone basins full of rose petals in water that glistened from the candlelight.  American Pulitzer Prize-winning novelist Edith Wharton once said:

“There are two ways of spreading light:  to be the candle or the mirror that reflects it.”

Antiqua, Guatemala for me was both.

Most of all the thing that struck me about Guatemala was the people.  I may have read a similar sentiment somewhere about somplace before and I remember thinking it was trite.  But for me, in this country, it was true.  In my past travel experience I have encountered half-hearted welcome, apathy, and animosity — even right within my own borders.  What struck me most about the Guatemalans was a genuineness that simply cannot be feigned.  They carried no animosity and it showed in their gentle, smiling eyes.  The beautiful little girl pictured here shyly presented her mother’s craftsmanship and I am quite sure she knew she’d melted my heart.  I asked if I could please take her picture and, smiling proudly, her mother said yes.  They both seemed surprised when I pressed some quetzals into her tiny little hands as a thank you.  This was another occasion where my resolution for us to carry cash would prove to be a good thing.  There was also a young boy, perhaps nine, who asked if he could shine my husband’s shoes.  Burk was wearing brown Cole Haans and blue jeans; not some business suit.  I was sort of appalled because I remember black shoe shines from when I was a kid and knew they deserved better.  My father always walked the road between two worlds being bi-racial and I witnessed it growing up; he was half German and half Choctaw.  So here this little boy was looking up at my husband all hopeful in the parking lot and my heart cracked in two.  We were so glad we had some money, but when Burk tried to just give it to him he vehemently shook his head “no”.  Not understanding, my husband kept trying to put some money into his shirt pocket.  The boy became more and more upset; to the point where tears were glistening in his eyes and threatening to spill over.  And then, in that moment, I got it.  I told the boy my husband’s shoes DEFINITELY needed a shine and could he please do so?  Burk just looked at me somewhat agitated until he saw me begging with my eyes to keep quiet.  The boy proudly set down to work on a little wooden planked stool, where he had my standing husband propped up on one foot.  I just shrugged and told Burk in English to read his paper (ironically in Spanish) and so he did.  And I watched that boy grow in stature as he vigorously rubbed my husband’s scruffy walking shoes until they actually looked presentable.  I know Burk felt uncomfortable but the boy most definitely did NOT want a handout.  He wanted to work and earn his money, which he most certainly did.  When he had finally finished my husband handed him the quetzals and the boy accepted them with a nod.  It was a nod of respect that hurt me coming from one so young.  But I was so thankful from lessons learned on our previous trips — ALWAYS CARRY LOCAL CURRENCY!  Canadian businessman Kevin O’Leary has said, “Money equals freedom.”  I agree with him and it is my fervent hope that hard workers like this little boy and little girl will gain it.  Achukma hoke.

Every time we ventured out I could not help but notice the brightly painted walls and stunning vines of flowers that dripped gracefully down toward the cobblestones.  Today we would make our way down to Antigua’s 5th Avenue to do a little shopping!  I have read it is probably the best city in all of Central America for shopping and I can believe it.  My sweet husband bought me a stunning mother of pearl choker in a high end jewelry store, and I am not known for changing my jewelry often.  They had authentic jade there worth a fortune and I noticed there were more men with machine guns guarding the doors.  The ancient Maya, Olmec, and Aztecs all treasured jade, more so than gold.  Passing the fancy art galleries, we ambled our way toward the plaza.  One could not help but notice the iconic yellow Santa Catalina Arch which allowed nuns to pass from the convent over the road below undisturbed, like a catwalk.  A little past the Plaza Mayor, we devoted the rest of day to looking around the mercado municipal (public market) as well as a huge outdoor artisans’ area for all sorts of handcrafted goods.  I love to bargain in foreign countries, but I refused to do so here.  The amount of time, detail, and work these women put into their stitched textiles was mind-boggling.  I felt I was taking advantage of them simply by paying their asking price; to have tried for less would have been immoral in my book.  We got a beautiful purse for my mother which she loved and carried until the day she died.  She was the envy of all who noticed it, so proud to have it, and I was embarrassed knowing it only cost something like $25.  The entire bag was made completely by hand and the whole front was covered in intricately detailed, hand-stitched red flowers.  The handles were strong and made of cloth and the inside even had a little zippered compartment.  No shoddy craftsmanship here; it was literally a wealth of talent, time, care and creativity that went into the goods we saw.  And no animals were slaughtered to make them!  There were woven shawls and rugs, smocked clothing, bags and more completely stitched by hand.  The national currency is the quetzal, named after the resplendent national bird of Guatemala.  In ancient Mayan culture the bird’s long tail feathers were used as currency.  I bought a large blue embroidered bag (primarily to bring back all my treasures) as well as two exquisitely detailed pillow shams each bearing three quetzals surrounded by flowers; one in dark blue and the other in vibrant orange.  They live in our formal dining room on our banquette and every day I am reminded of Guatemala and its beauty each time I walk through our home.  The famous 19th century American philosopher Ralph Waldo Emerson once said:

“Never lose an opportunity of seeing anything beautiful, for beauty is God’s handwriting.”