San Antonio in Pieces

Edit: Now all condensed into one post

There are parts of this I'm still not liking, we'll see what remains.



New Series: *All names have been changed to protect the innocent and the not-so-innocent.




April of 2009 found me traveling to San Antonio for 5 days to make a petition to the Air Force's Formal Medical Board at Lackland Air Force Base. I had already been awarded twenty percent disability for my Fibromyalgia by the informal board, but I was fighting to get at least thirty percent, which would give me retirement instead of a medical separation. This trip marked my first solo vacation, the climax of my Air Force career, and impacted me in countless small ways that set forth a ripple effect of events in my life. Looking back it seems that every little piece of that week had a profound effect, and that seemed the best way to tell the story, by adding up every little piece:

A-Adidas:

I have been called a “Shoe Whore” a time or two. While some might take offense at such a crude title, I believe that if the shoe fits... For my trip to San Antonio, I thought long and hard about which shoes to take with me, since I was dealing with limited luggage space and unknown social settings. I decided the logical decision was to take a pair of all-white Adidas Superstars, and my black Doc Martins. Together they seemed a sensible, comfortable choice for one week, since I was unsure how much I would even be in civilian clothes.

While Doc Martins make an appealing, professional impression, nothing looks classier than a spotless pair of all-white Adidas. They project an image of clean-cut All-American wholesomeness. There's no mistaking the iconic shell-toe or three stripes down the side. Instantly recognizable, often imitated, the Adidas Superstar is the sneaker all other sneakers aspire to be, and my shoe of choice for most occasions. My Doc Martins did not see sunlight the entire week I was in San Antonio, and the Adidas only left my feet when I had to trade them for my combat boots. The comfort and style they provided me in San Antonio led to the purchase of several more Adidas once I returned home.

B-BBQ:

Every time I walk off the plane into San Antonio International Airport, the first thing to assault my senses, ahead of even the soul-crushing heat, is the smell of barbeque. Think of the most flavorful, slow-roasted, savory barbeque you've ever had; that's the smell. This scent permeates the air of the entire airport, from the arrivals wing, through the terminals, down to the baggage claim. It smells amazing, yet luckily never makes me hungry for barbeque, since there is not actually any restaurant within the airport that serves it. There's the usual assortment of McDonald's, Starbucks, and Cinnabons fighting to assuage the fast food needs of weary travelers. There are countless tex-mex restaurants, sports bars, and pizzerias, but not one single place that serves barbeque.

C-Cops:

My second night at Lackland, I was on my way to the convenience store in the billeting lobby when a group of guys drinking in the courtyard called out to me. “Hey, come have a drink with us,” yelled a short, wiry man.

“Maybe later,” I yelled down to them from my third floor balcony, with no real intention of following through. I didn't know them, and I was out of ice cream.

Ten minutes later I was walking back to my room with a six pack of Corona and the recently acquired knowledge that the on-base liquor store was closed on Tuesdays, when I thought “Why not go chat with those guys for a minute?”

That minute turned into hours. I ended up sharing a bottle of Captain Morgan Private Stock, two liters of Coke, and a whole lot of stories with three Air Force cops that I will probably never see again. Short wiry guy, who originally hailed from Georgia, insisted that we toast each round. No one else had any memorized, so he taught us his favorite, which I found hilarious and texted to myself so I would remember it beyond that night. When I awoke late Wednesday afternoon, I found this in my phone's inbox: “Here's to wars and revolution, Bud Light and prostitution. Big 'ole bulls that don't stop buckin' and sweet Georgia girls that don't stop fuckin'.”

D-Doctor

Start to finish, I saw over twenty different doctors and specialists in the last three years of my Air Force medical experience. Of them all, my favorite by far was Dr. W. She was my Oncologist, the doctor who oversaw all my cancer care, answered all my questions, and helped me as much as she could to prepare for my Medical Board. I only wish all doctors were as compassionate and friendly as Dr. W.

E-Elevator

Lackland Air Force Base is the only Basic Training installation for the Air Force. It is known as the “Gateway to the Air Force,” and as such, everything is tailored to setting a good example for the young trainees. Most of the buildings currently standing were constructed in the 1960s, and there is not one single elevator to be found on the base. Since the majority of people residing at Lackland are in peak physical condition, this is not a huge issue. For myself however, stairs are not my friend. I normally avoid going up them at all costs, since they exhaust me, strain my chemo-shot lungs, and once I've overdone it, cause my knees to give out. But with no alternative method of reaching my third-floor room, I was forced to deal with my nemesis many times during my week long stay.

I've recently come to realize that I talk to myself more than is probably socially acceptable. My week in San Antonio was no different, as I found myself muttering under my breath constant complaints about the heat, number of stairs, and lack of elevators. The night of my arrival alone I traversed up and down the three flights of stairs a record 10 times. By some weird fluke, the south Texas heat seemed to alleviate my Fibromyalgia enough that I could handle the stairs. Still, an elevator would have been nice.

F-Fauxhawk

It has been roughly two years now that I've had my hair back since being chemo-bald. Having never had hair so short before, I like to have fun with it. The Air Force's rules on dress and appearance ban hairstyles that can be considered “extreme or faddish,” so the fauxhawk is not authorized in uniform. As a result, I find my hair being combed into a point running down the middle of my head any time I'm not in uniform. Because of post 9-11 airport restrictions, the only hair product I've brought with me is my two ounce container of “Texture Dirt,” which coincidentally happens to be best for sculpting the fauxhawk.

The entire week I'm in San Antonio finds me wearing my hair in a fauxhawk. In Sacramento this does not attract much attention, but in Texas I find many people glance at me for extended periods of time. After being bald, I'm used to impolitely long stares, so I just brush it off as curiosity. Until someone asks me for a picture. The military has taught me to be wary of my surroundings and be alert to abnormal behavior. This request definitely strikes me as odd, and I respectfully decline, then carefully comb my hair into a more conservative style for the remainder of my trip.

G-GPS

I have a rather rough time remembering things, especially directions, and as such I have found my Garmin GPS to be a godsend. I use it every time I drive, whether I know the route or not. I find that it helps keep me on track, since sometimes I not only forget where I'm going, but what I'm doing. It's also convenient to find food or mark my parking spot when I'm in an unfamiliar place. My GPS can be put into walking, bicycling, or driving mode, and I utilized the walking mode after parking in downtown San Antonio on my way to sushi.

Easily following my GPS's directions back to the parking garage I had saved in the memory, I snapped the GPS into its window-mount and selected the address for my on-base hotel. I trust my GPS's directions over my own memory, so I did not question it when instead of directing me back to highway 410 it kept me on the main street running through downtown. After a few minutes had passed and I noticed we seemed to be detouring through the hood, I got suspicious. At the next red light I went into the Tools option in the menu, only to find that I had left the GPS in walking mode. Back in driving mode, I was immediately directed onto the 410, and able to escape the never-ending series of lights of downtown. Lesson learned.

H-Harry

The military is a rather tight-knit community of people who support each other. Once you've worked with someone, no matter if it's for a weekend or 4 years, you have a connection. TSgt Harry had worked in my building, though in a different office section, for at least three of the years I had been there. We saw each other only in passing and exchanged greetings maybe a couple times a week. Harry transferred to Lackland Air Force Base to become a MTI (Military Training Instructor) three months before I was sent for my Medical Board, and I still had his cell number in my phone. In the civilian world, such a tenuous connection would not be worth meeting up for a drink, but in the military, my phone call was greeted like that of a long-lost family member. I was enthusiastically invited to Harry's small temporary-housing apartment to have dinner with him and his family, and my arrival was met with hugs and beers. We spent several hours catching up and talking, both promising to keep in touch as I left to return to my room and pack for my flight the next morning.

I-Ice Cream

The lobby of the billeting office houses a small convenience store that sells everything from essential items one might have forgotten to pack (razors, toothbrushes, deodorant), to unhealthy snacks and novelties. Because I was unaccustomed to the high level of heat that San Antonio exists in, I found myself returning to this convenience store once and even twice a day to replenish my supply of water and ice cream. I love ice cream. Drumsticks, ice cream bars, plain vanilla in a pint, I love it all. I used to be severely lactose intolerant, which limited my ice cream intake considerably. Luckily chemotherapy managed to leave me with the happy side effect of being able to once again digest dairy products, and I have been abusing that new-found ability ever since. Rationalizing that I was on vacation, therefore the calories did not count, I felt free to eat as much ice cream as I pleased.

J-Julio

I had never met Julio until he rolled to a stop in front of me in his black Chevy Silverado my first night in San Antonio. Juilo was my roommate Anthony's friend, whom Anthony had lived with while stationed in England. Anthony was talking to Julio on Skype one night, taking his new MacBook from room to room to show Julio the house we lived in, when Anthony casually mentioned that I was going to Lackland in a few weeks for my Medical Board. Anthony “introduced” the two of us via video chat, and Julio offered to show me around San Antonio. Phone numbers were exchanged, and when I landed in San Antonio, I was greeted by a text message from Julio asking what my plans were.

The military grants one access to an exclusive club. Membership in this club affords one an instant connection to anyone else in the club, and friendships can be forged in an instant. Julio had no legitimate reason to offer me his friendship and companionship, but we both belonged to this exclusive club, and since we were both friends with Anthony, we were instant comrades. I learned upon stepping into his truck that his name was actually Mike, and that he was originally from the “Great State of Texas,” which was why he had volunteered to move to San Antonio upon leaving England. Mike was stationed at one of the (five) other military bases in San Antonio, but he drove me around to help me locate the building I needed to report to the next morning, and took me to find some food, as well as met up with me two other times while I was in Texas. The thing I miss most about the Air Force is that connection. It is the secret handshake, the password, the combination to the locked door housing instant friendship and a bond deeper than can be forged in school.


Stay tuned for more updates as I revise.