Living in a steak void

After I first left Texas, I was drawn back to my home state and began exploring San Antonio. My new college camarade was from San Antonio. We had bonded in the university cafeteria as we struggled to wrap our head around the state of affairs at the grill. No steak. We settled on cheeseburgers. I distinctly remember laughing hysterically, aghast with sadness, when my friend muttered,

“Who do I have to kill around here to get a steak.”

The severity of my decision to move to Tacoma, Washington set in. I had moved to the Pacific Northwest and was now undergoing some serious culture shock.

When Christmas break rolled around, I stuck it out in Dallas for a few weeks. Trying to explain my new surroundings in the Northwest, but not gaining much traction. I was getting a little antsy and decided to see what San Antonio was all about. The stories had definitely preceded my visit. Wild parties, mexicana galas, bean and cheese combos like you’ve never seen, smelled, or ingested. I took the back roads down, reveling in the hospitality of the Texas countryside. I developed a theory that I called “truck etiquette.” This includes a number of civil decencies, but most importantly the grace to move to the shoulder if you’re driving slower than the fast approaching car in your rearview mirror. My trip to San Antonio was unforgettable: rich in culture, old as hell, with neighborhoods so tropical and roads so windy, I have been mystified by that town ever since.