Wilbo Realizes He Has Arrived in San Antonio for San Atonement, So He Learns to Watercolor Paint and Goes to a Vegan, New Age Restaurant

Leap Day 2020 at 8:09 AM

February 29th, 2020

The McDonalds tucked into the Walmart at Roosevelt and Military Roads

San Antonio, Texas

I have felt the return of my sense of humor. I said hello to the Walmart Greeter before the greeter greeted me. You gotta be quick to greet the greeter before the greeter greets you. I’m not a gun slinger. I’m a greet slinger. The joke needs to be workshopped, but at least the joke got written down. 

The weather person called this a cold snap. Why didn’t the cold go away in the snap of a finger? The term now is polar vortex. I wish the North Pole would stop vortexing me. It keeps vortexting, “You’re going to freeze”. The joke needs to be workshopped, but you can’t workshop a joke until it’s written. Life is like a chicken egg. Either you hatch or you get peeled or cracked. That joke is a little cracked already. 

Maybe I was sent to San Antonio to become a better person. How do I know this? Let’s consult the Gospel according to Willy Nelson. In the psalm called “On the Road Again”, he calls this town San Atone. And boy oh boy, did Will Nelson atone. He paid for the sin of picking the wrong accountant to manage his money. He called one of his tours the “Working for the IRS” tour. He paid out the nose for years to settle his tax debt.

I am sure I have found this town because I need San Atonement. For example, I continue to be a Vegan, which means I’m no longer eating pets. 

I have awoken from a carnivorous nightmare and wonder frequently how I can make up for fifty-six years of animal cruelty, slaughter done for me by anonymous butchers? Maybe I’ll keep a flock of pet chickens and let the hens hatch all the eggs. Raise bees and let the hives keep their honey. Keep a herd of sacred cows. Does one have to milk a sacred cow?

What about all those years I had the chance to learn Spanish, but I never took my studies seriously enough? Well, in San Atone I find myself in a place where all the serious conversation takes place in Spanish. Thank goodness all messages posted in Spanish are translated into English. Everywhere I look, it’s like flash cards in public. I must atone for my disrespect of Spanish by embracing the language closely.

Friday, I went to Bernie’s HQ to make calls. I cannot find the HQ of any of the other candidates. The game at Bernie’s has changed from calling Texas voters. Early voting has ended in Texas. I found the program to dial voters in South Carolina, strictly reaching out for likely Bernie voters to make a plan to vote on Saturday. Looking at the status line, I was stunned to see eight hundred active calls in progress on the status board, eight hundred Bernie volunteers talking to people simultaneously. We consumed a phone list of thirty-six thousand voters in less than ten minutes. 

One man made my day. I wish I could recall his warm words the way he said them in a true South Carolina way. He loved the Bern and he promised to bring “seventy-five friends to the polling place”. I honestly believe this man has seventy-five friends and the charm to make this polling place party happen. I made thirty calls, talking to real people, in ten minutes, and even the Trump supporters spoke to me politely. I love South Carolina.

I caught a bus to Laurel Heights, a neighborhood that looks upon the cityscape of San Antonio’s towers. The enclave calls itself Monte Vista too. A watercolor artist named Soon Y. Warren awaited to tell her collectors how she paints her award-winning compositions. I later met the collectors from Fort Worth who drove her five hours south to her show. Soon Y. Warren is so cool she rolls with an entourage, just like Andy Warhol.

Art Gallery Prudencia had filled standing room only by the time I walked through the door open to the night. The guests had dressed up for the event.  They listened like MFA students as Warren talked technique. She showed how she applied water and then paint and coaxed the paint around the paper by raising and lowering the paper balanced on the palm of her hands. I didn’t know one could paint watercolor without a brush. I was learning so much, but I noticed only three people had a glass of wine in their hand.

I wanted a glass of wine. So, I crossed in front of Warren and made it to the door of the next gallery. Everyone saw me cross between them and the demonstration, and half followed me into the refreshment room. A volunteer wearing a purple shirt, purple tie and a purple Willy Wonka top hat poured us all a glass of Cabernet. We returned to Warren, who was showing how to use masking tape to secure paper to a flat work surface. She hardly noticed our wine journey.

I struck up a conversation with a watercolor painter who loved to paint the Catholic missions along the San Antonio River and old, iconic buildings that survived the bulldozers of urban renewal. Dressed in a Hawaiian shirt open three buttons deep, a massive man with a powerful bearing walked up to us. I took a second to admire his white goatee. “Hello Meredith! How fine it is to see you this evening. Sir, I am cutting in”. 

If I were quicker, I would have said, “Hello, sir, might I introduce you to my trophy fiancé”?

Usually, a person walks up, joins the conversation. One listens for a moment and then walks on to the next conversation. I rolled with it. “Yes, just tap me on the shoulder. It’s time to go to the next person on our dance cards”. 

I went to freshen my drink. I saw a wall of life studies by a painter named Clay, delicate paintings that fully appreciated the lines, curves and shadows of a beautiful model, sometimes draped in silk and sometimes dressed in a smile. The model had a now familiar smile. If an artist can glorify a person, immortalizing her that way, who am I to keep him from his muse?

I knew it would be a hike to reach La Botanica, but I already knew the place was special. I noted events earlier, a protest sign workshop and a book group. I walked by Texas ranches, all sided with that pine harvested a long time ago, and I enjoyed the fragrance of wood fires burning in backyard fire pits. 

I wanted to knock on the front door and ask, “Can I stand by your chimenaria for a moment”? It didn’t take long to arrive at the St. Mary’s Strip, which offered funky businesses like the Faust Tavern and Robot Monster Guitars. I offered to trade my soul for a shot of Jagermeister, but found the bartender to be human, not Beelzebub. 

A botanica serves la barrio by keeping folk remedies in stock, a place where neighbors can go for healing, usually by self-medication. Need a candle to light so that the Virgin of Guadalupe sees one on both knees and listens to the prayer? Go to a botanica to buy one. Rebel Mariposa opened a botanica around a kitchen serving the best vegan food she could make. 

The open-air courtyard last night featured women purveying aromatherapy and jewelry and vegan baked goods and more, standing at card tables covered with white linen cloths. A man selling vegan brownies gave me a few moist samples of a carob treat. I wandered outside, enjoying the music being spun by a smiling woman wearing a bandana over her hair. People were gathered at picnic tables, dining al fresco, enjoying being together in the courtyard at night.

I counted only three men, wondering if the space at La Botanica could be described feminine space. Many signs around the space affirmed that all were welcome in the courtyard, regardless of orientation. I admired all the women who gathered in little knots, sharing the warm evening together, relaxing, happily deep in conversation. I honored their decision to pay me no attention.