The light is different here. And everywhere there are words. On buildings, on bricks underfoot, on plaques and statues. Every corner is rich with history.

Ornate carvings line the buildings and black birds with long tails cackle and caw in the trees. I walked underneath them, their song resounding in the cobblestone streets. Plants are everywhere, literally clinging to walls and windows. Palm trees, flowers, and so many leaves.

My eyes have seen so many things today. Cowboy boots, hats, mexican trinkets, armadillo art, candy, water, ducks, smiles on strangers, amazing food. I feel immersed in a place that is filled with energy from long times past. It is a place that has survived turmoil, revolution, death. Instead of covering the old things, the things that would normally be pulled down and replaced, the city builds around what was. The old churches and theaters all remain relatively in tact on the outside, their facades covered in the architecture and art of a century ago. You can’t walk more than a few feet without looking up and seeing yet another beautiful building towering up to the sky.

When I was little, we learned about the Alamo, were taught the phrase “Remember the Alamo!” I didn’t really get it as a teenager. And I’ve been to this city twice before, with my family, but didn’t have the freedom to explore like I did today. I believe I’ve made up for that in one day of walking and reading and seeing all that I could.

I found a statue of T.C. Frost in a beautiful circle of trees and flowers mixed with ferns. His name I had seen earlier on a building and I finally was able to read about him. Birds with a strange chirp called to each other in the trees as I stood there, for a moment or two, in front of this huge bronze man. It was like the city was welcoming me, saying hello. And I said hello right back.

Remember the Alamo…its about remembering the people who died in a siege against Mexican general Santa Ana. A battle that they lost. It’s also about remembering that they lost. One battle was lost, but something also was born from it, the need to stand up for something.

Strolling through a three story antique store I found even more history. Old things collected on shelves, on display, eager for a new home. A room full of records, floor to ceiling, hidden on the third floor would have been a treasure for my dad. And maybe someday I can bring him here to find it. And in the back there was an old room of junk, sinks, rusty tools, a typewriter. The floors creaked as I walked in between all the stuff lying around. I could feel that this building was old, it was as antique as the things it housed inside it (if not older). Octagon tiles had been laid on some of the floors, and the light streamed through the windows in a way that made me stop. Like light can when its warm and inviting.

Even now, as I sit in the hotel writing, drinking Cheer Wine (a cherry cola I had only heard about till now) I feel as if I belong here. The city has embraced me and accepted me. My ancestors lived in Red River, Texas, in the 1800s. It wouldn’t surprise me in the least to find out they had some roots in San Antonio. Over the years the places I love the most tend to be places that I find out were part of my own heritage. My affinity for this place seems to indicate that I have ties here too.

I always knew I loved Texas, from living here so many years ago. It’s nice to once again find that feeling of home.