San Antonio Day Trips: Bonham, Houston and Third Streets

The thermometer read 84 degrees at 10 a.m. this morning, and I soon left home to take photos for a series of blogs about San Antonio I'm collectively calling "day trips."

My idea is to take pictures and publish them with a blog post showcasing the unique aspects of the City's different neighborhoods.

Today, I'm focusing on the City's East Side and planned to photograph some of the buildings along the unique triangular intersection of Bonham, Houston and Third streets near the Crockett Hotel in downtown San Antonio.

I plotted my route as I drove downtown, parking on a side street and tucking my water bottle into my bag. I deposited a few quarters into the meter and peered around. Dozens of pedestrians were ambling about with their families, riding solo on bicycles, drinking beer at restaurants and enjoying the sights and sounds of San Antonio despite the rising temperature.

My husband and I returned to San Antonio about four years ago, and I've noticed there doesn't seem to be a consensus about how to dress for the weather here. In fact, people sometimes wear clothes for another season. Hey, it's 50 degrees in January. I think I'll wear shorts and flip-flops to the ice cream shop and save my long sleeves and pants for the middle of August!

As crazy as it might sound, this freewheeling attitude characterizes many of the things I love about San Antonio. The downtown architecture is an anachronism, and rightfully so. Nowhere else would I expect to see buildings like these, or houses preserved so beautifully as in the King William Historic District the way I remembered seeing them during my last visit to downtown.

The mix of classical architecture and modern amenities will continue to draw transplants and young people from other cities to San Antonio, so the City of San Antonio Office of Historic Preservation should strive to preserve its unique character this way.

By mid-morning, downtown was abuzz with activity, and I began wandering around to photograph of some of the streets and architecture I envisioned for this blog, beginning with the picturesque Bonham Exchange, an ornately-decorated structure evocative of the Victorian era.

The historic Bonham Exchange located at the intersection of Bonham and Third streets.

Though this wasn't my first time seeing the building, I was impressed by the layout of historic buildings and urban design.

In addition to the scenery, all the moments of my trip seemed perfectly timed and coordinated. When I passed the History Shop across from the Alamo, where Genesis frontman Phil Collins delivered the first items in his growing collection of Alamo artifacts back in 2014, a car drove by with its windows rolled down, the radio playing the group's hit song "In the Air Tonight."

I've heard the song hundreds of times – probably more than any other song on the radio – but it was like a whole new experience listening to it in the heart of downtown San Antonio near the Alamo, a place the singer once declared that he loved.

It was as if I were stepping into a movie about San Antonio's living history just by visiting this spot.

I continued west, passing a friendly-looking guard standing near one of the limestone walls spanning Alamo Plaza along Houston Street, and stopped across from the Oro Restaurant and Bar, located in the historic Emily Morgan Hotel, to look up at the building's ornate stone carvings. I counted the stories as I gazed up the side, where gargoyles stared down at me.

I paused to pull up some information about the hotel on my phone, remembering how I'd wished that downtown San Antonio had more benches for people to sit and relax in the shade. The sidewalk across the street from the Emily Morgan Hotel would be the perfect spot for one.

Luckily, the City's cup overflows with online articles and history dating back to before these buildings were constructed, and the search quickly turned up information about the hotel's history right on its website.

Built in 1924 by famous architect Ralph Cameron, it was constructed to be the Medical Arts Building on Alamo Plaza. It is 13 stories tall and influenced by Gothic revival, featuring pieces of cast iron and a copper roof with wood ribs. The gargoyles lining the building each wear an expression portraying a medical ailment – a fitting touch since it housed doctor's offices and served as a hospital for patients from 1924 to 1976.

The building was converted into modern office space in 1976 and was transformed into a hotel less than 10 years later, but I was still interested in learning whom the hotel was named after.

Emily Morgan, the site explained, was a 20-year-old black indentured servant who was captured along with other members of her household by the Mexican forces on April 16, 1836 during the Texas Revolution.

While not much is known about her life, a British traveler named William Bollaert wrote an entry in his journal in 1842, which some say planted the seed of Emily's legend that she distracted Mexican General Santa Anna in his tent while a Texas army led a charge against the Mexican camp during siesta on April 21, 1836, leading to battle victory for the Texas army in less than an hour.

The History Shop, located across from the Alamo, is popular with tourists and houses some Texas artifacts donated by musician Phil Collins.

Even less is known about the woman's life after the Revolution. There were disputes over whether she was actually freed. It's believed that she returned to her home state of New York and that she may have been the inspiration for the song, "The Yellow Rose of Texas," written after the war.

As I thought about Emily Morgan, I wondered how different cultures had come together here before, and all the history that's been written and unwritten in order to preserve these structures and the people living behind them.

San Antonio always felt timeless to me, and in this part of downtown, east seems to meet west, the buildings taking on the look of railroad depots and saloons out of some old movie.

The designs of the intersections are also interesting, such as this one located at the crossing of Houston and Third streets, looking west toward Alamo Plaza.

Houston Street meets Third Street as it wends east through downtown, where this historic building, distant hotels and a skyscraper present a profile of a city with many contrasts.

Because of the way the road curves, a pedestrian gets a view of multiple pieces of history running right alongside each other. Though I couldn't identify the two-story building in the foreground, it looked like it was built in the Italianate, Greek and Victorian styles similar to the houses on the South Side.

I walked along the median where Houston Street narrowed to a one-way lane and decided to turn right once I reached Alamo Street. To the right, I saw Molina's restaurant and the sign printed on the side of the Alamoesque building, "Thank You For Your Business."

The road running east along Houston Street toward Bonham Street – a panorama evoking the Wild West, though it leads to San Antonio's East Side.

I decided to complete my day trip by visiting a place I've always wanted to see but never visited: The Hays Street Bridge located on Cherry Street beyond Interstate 37.

There, I could climb to the top of the bridge for a panoramic view of downtown from above.

I walked down the sidewalk, passing several art studios featuring iron works and sculptures, where I glimpsed little purple flowers peeking out from beneath the foliage. San Antonio is home to some of the most exotic flowers, such as this purple passiflora, a favorite for many different bees.

A bee feeds on a purple passiflora, also known as passion flower, in a downtown garden.

I passed a large, five-story building that is being renovated, hearing drilling and mechanical sounds echoing from within. I stopped to peer through the gutted windows to see men working inside.

Finally, I made my way past Chestnut Street, heading south down a long sidewalk past a beer garden. Traffic roared over my head as I walked toward the bridge. A quaint old railroad sign marked the entrance next to a park bench, and I started up the ramp.

The first thing I saw was a sign declaring a no-graffiti ordinance, and that the bridge was under video surveillance.

It was a way to the top of the bridge, but it's a great view once you're there. The bridge is wide – it once accommodated automobiles and wagons – and trains pass beneath it near the new Alamo Beer Co.

Now open to pedestrian and bicycle traffic, people are doing all sorts of things on the bridge, from meeting up with friends to taking selfies, doing yoga, exercising and making videos and documentaries.

I ran into two young women who were visiting the bridge to hang out, drink a beer and take pictures before it got too hot. We sat and talked for a while. One of the women was from San Antonio, while the other had lived here for eight years but was planning to move to Seattle. The rent in downtown San Antonio, she explained, had become too expensive for a lot of people, who were now moving into low-rent houses with friends or back in with their parents.

As we talked, we noticed a woman at the opposite end of the bridge who had set up a camera and a tripod. Much to my surprise, she was wearing a sweatsuit and dancing in the now 90-degree heat. We watched as she hopped up and down to a beat coming out of her small, portable speaker. The woman moved for another twenty minutes before packing up and heading down the bridge's other side.

Something about seeing the woman's high-energy dancing in the heat made me happy. For one, the Hays Street Bridge is a cultural beauty with a majestic view, and I thought of the opening scene from the movie, "Flashdance," where Jennifer Beals, an aspiring dancer, bicycles across a bridge to a steamy, electronic beat.

It was that sort of dynamism that I hoped would always exist in San Antonio, a place full of energy and excitement regardless of the season.

If that meant sporting sweat pants and long sleeves to make a music video beneath the blazing sun, then so be it.

The Hays Street Bridge looking west toward downtown San Antonio.

Double Negatives: When Nothing's OK

So, in case you haven't noticed, things haven't been making no sense lately.

Or maybe they've been making so much sense that they seem nonsensical even when they aren't. Either way, I know that at the end of the day, when I turn off the lights and pull the covers up to my chin, I'm pervaded by a strange new feeling about the future that I can't remember having before:

Everything's either going to be fabulous or it's going to be a disaster.

Ever since Trum became President, the world that exists between something fabulous and a disaster – also known as the "OK" world – seems to have gone bye-bye in my mind and in the words and expressions of many people around me.

What ever happened to OK?

I call him Trum because I once heard a third grader utter his name loudly and courageously without the "p" at the end. Some kids seem to love Trum, probably for the same reason that they appreciate many of their favorite cartoon characters: He's colorful, he makes faces at people and he's not boring, so they can relate to him even if they can't spell his name.

Besides, the "p'" too closely resembles the emoticon that people text to each other when they're being cheeky, so anytime I see his full name, I can't help wondering if it's a subtle political strategy of sticking out one's tongue.

I realize it's not kind to poke fun at the P, and besides, he's not the subject of this blog, anyway. The subject is double negatives and what can be learned from nothing being not OK. I mean, OK.

Anyhoo, back to it. What is a double negative? Here are some examples I found:

I don't feel like going nowhere.

I can't get no satisfaction.

When someone sends me a text message that says "I'm not here," and then I delete their phone number.

Pandas on my shoulder: Which one's good and which one's bad?

People who know me know that I've suffered from anxiety and a lifelong struggle with mild – and sometimes not so mild – manic depression, a.k.a. bipolar disorder. As people with the same problem have told me, it's a hell of a time waking up feeling calm and relaxed and not knowing if you won't become a maniac in a few hours.

But in time, I've learned to deal. One of my coping mechanisms is the realization that suffering from the lifelong anxiety that comes with the disorder makes it easy to help people when they panic.

It took me a while to learn that what I once considered a weakness actually embodies the secret strength to comfort others. Sort of like what Trum has done for religious fundamentalists who want their own TV shows about their home in the middle of the woods where they live with their eight children. It's a hopeful thing that their dreams, too, could one day become a reality.

Now, make no mistake: The road from vicious, self-defeating paranoia to earnest helper-in-chief has not come without effort. Case in point: A couple days ago, I was pumping gas and staring off into space when the video screen above the pump suddenly came to life.

It appeared that someone – or something – had installed a new service for customers: The ability to learn a new word while trying to satisfy their vehicle's endless thirst for fuel. And that wasn't all. This particular word didn't seem to be any word, but my word, as if it were chosen just for me.

The word was "tarantism," and the screen quickly displayed the definition as "an extreme urge to dance resulting from the bite of a spider."

Well, I hadn't made it halfway through reading the message before I was shaking in my boots. I became instantly paranoid, worried that someone was watching me from inside the station, or, even worse, a secret agent of the government in some remote control room had beamed in from the station headquarters to confide in me one of my deepest, darkest secrets.

But then I did what smart, rational people tell me to do when I'm feeling upset: I started taking really, really deep breaths. Soon, my heartbeat returned to normal. I replaced the dispenser on the handle, returned to my car and drove home to look up the word online for a more thorough definition.

Since then, I've pondered a potential career as a roadside helper. Sort of like a roadside mechanic, but for people who are having nervous breakdowns instead of car problems.

I realize it's awful to think this way – that I might capitalize on other people's suffering. But shouldn't it be considered positive thinking that if something bad's happened to everyone, we're at least all in it together? I think the common idiom is "Misery Loves Company."

Our cat: Not worried about Trum.

Somehow, though, I don't find it so comforting. It seems that Trum's inflamed rhetoric has somehow turned this once-reassuring aphorism into a double negative of its own. Much to my chagrin, not only are people miserable, they don't seem to be finding solace in the same ways.

Me, either. I find myself constantly on edge, drawn to the news like it's a drug, afraid of reading, but even more terrified to look away. I'm left with a pervasive feeling of alienation, and in its aftermath, the odd sensation that Trum is somehow my friend, that I should do what John F. Kennedy once encouraged his fellow citizens to do: Ask not what your country can do for you. Ask what you can do for your country.

So, the time has come, I've decided, to be a better person, to do, as President Kennedy once said, not what's easy, but what's hard. I am going to write Trum a letter, if for no other reason than to reassure him that nothing's going to be OK.

If you're reading this, you might be interested to know that thinking philosophically is not just a fun pastime for me. It's also a way to try to understand the world and make some sense of things that don't. If everything really is as it appears and the President of the United States is a figurehead who presents a face of the U.S. to the rest of the world, then how bad can things really be?

Well, pretty bad. But my cat reads the news, too, and she doesn't seem overly concerned.