By Sandra Martinez
San Antonio came through in a chant, in a dream actually.
Outside of writing 50 or more so emails a day, my dreams of moving to New York and becoming a writer had long ago vanished. That’s not to say I didn’t take great pride and flourish busting out those well-thought out emails coaching the newest manager through their first inventory (poor thing), balancing “stern, yet relatable” ethos on improving loss prevention. “Go Team Go” regularly found its way as the “Bring it Home” email mantra.
I still carried my tiny writer’s journal everywhere I went, for the one moment I would suddenly be inclined to jot down a thought or two. My I Phone notes are composed of half sentences, subway people observations, and last nights dream interpretation.
As much as walking down streets of thousands, daily moved me in ways I had no words for- New York consumed me. It fed me until I was gorging on yet another tattooed themed version of whatever was cool today, bar or restaurant. I was over-stimulated to the point of dehydration. I craved a bit of solitude. A plot of grass to call my own, would verge on orgasmic. Or, at least that is what I told myself as I secretly began to Insta-stalk any and all San Antonio establishments. Was it time to go home?
San Antonio was quietly chanting my name. Beckoning me home. Revealing its shiny fiesta streets to me, and only me.