Steps from History, Miles from Comfort (Ghosts, Group 6, and the Road to San Antonio)

Jamie, Alida, and I are flying out of Charlotte on American Airlines, headed for San Antonio. Alida’s boyfriend is graduating from Air Force Boot Camp, and she wanted to be there to cheer him on while he stands at attention, looking equal parts proud and terrified. A big moment, and we’re lucky to be a part of it.

Now, Jamie’s not what you’d call a relaxed flyer. She’s not screaming or grabbing strangers, but let’s just say she starts checking wind speeds and plane crash statistics the minute we book tickets. Remember how in the The A-Team how BA. Barracus hated to fly so they would shoot him in the neck with a tranquilizer dart... That's probably not going to work, so we may just have to lean on Dramamine, a few parking lot shots, and prayer.

Despite a bit of airline loyalty and some modest travel this year, I’m still proudly boarding in Group 6. Which is slightly above emotional support animals and just under people who got their tickets in a raffle at a county fair. We’re in 38D, 38E, and 38F, which—if we’re talking bra sizes—sounds like a night to remember. But in airplane seating? That’s the last row. No recline. Back against the wall. Right next to the bathroom. The view? Nothing but elbows and a cart full of ginger ale. Someday I’ll fly up front. Someday. Until then, we board when they call the Hopeful and Humbled.

A Hotel with History (and Possibly Ghosts)

Jamie found the whole trip as a package deal. She scoured every forum and message board about where to stay during Boot Camp graduation—99% of them written by women named “Debbie” who include phrases like “God Bless our Troops” in their signatures. They all said the same thing: stay near the River Walk. Jamie listened. She booked the Crockett Hotel, which sounded safe and central.

So, we’re staying at the Crockett Hotel, a name that immediately sounds like you should be wearing a coonskin cap when you check in. Turns out, the place is legit. Built around the turn of the 20th century by a group called the Oddfellows Lodge, it’s one of those historic properties that’s been standing long enough to earn its own personality—and maybe a few ghosts.

It’s steps from the Alamo. Not metaphorically. Literally. The Alamo’s old stone walls are just outside the front door. I can’t overstate how exciting that is for a history nerd like me. This isn’t just a hotel near a landmark—we’re sleeping on what was once a battlefield. Where people made their last stand. Where cannonballs flew. Where legends were born, and many never left.

Of course, a place with that kind of backstory tends to bring out the ghost hunters. The Crockett shows up on all the paranormal walking tours, and there are plenty of whispered stories about strange noises, cold spots, and things moving in the night. I’m not saying I believe in ghosts, but…

Let’s be honest: ghosts are never recent. Nobody ever reports a haunting by a guy who died in 2015. There’s no spirit of Kyle wearing joggers and AirPods haunting a Buffalo Wild Wings. Ghosts are always in petticoats or colonial uniforms, or they’re Civil War soldiers pacing the floor in bare feet.

When was the last time you saw a hipster ghost? A flannel-wearing barista who died tragically during a flat white spill and now eternally rearranges the oat milk at Starbucks? Never happens. Even in the afterlife, they’re too ironic to haunt you properly.

Picnic Basket Blues

Because I’ll be in virtual training Tuesday through Thursday—three full days of Teams purgatory—I won’t get to explore San Antonio until late afternoon each day. Probably for the best. Texas in July isn’t exactly mild. I’ll emerge from my laptop cave right as the sun begins to drop, and Jamie and I have already made plans to take long walks along the River Walk once it cools down.

We’ve been trying to stay in shape—We’ve been walking a few miles each night lately anyway, trying to stay healthy and ward off middle age with sneakers and sarcasm. Nothing fancy. Just middle-aged maintenance. So a city known for walkability, scenic views, and food you eat with your hands sounds like the right vibe for us. A walk, lit up under the cypress trees, couples walking hand-in-hand, street musicians playing something vaguely romantic.  A riverside stroll sounds just about right.

I even had a romantic idea: grab a small dinner, pack it up, and picnic somewhere along the river. But then I realized, between my carry-on and my laptop bag, there was no chance I could bring my beloved picnic basket. (Ok I only thought about it for a second but it was hilarious at least in my head)

And I’m not talking about some basic little plastic bin. This thing is the Cadillac of picnic baskets—built-in plates, silverware, wine holders, little napkins with a pattern. I love that basket. But there’s just no dignified way to haul it onto a plane. Can you imagine me dragging that thing through TSA? I'm pretty sure you cant carry on a corkscrew or a cheese knife either.

“Sir, is this a wicker suitcase?”

“Nope. That’s a romantic lifestyle choice.”

Ridiculous. I know it. And yet, I’ll miss it. If I die on this trip, I’ll be the ghost haunting the airport food court—a hipster phantom in Vans and cargo shorts, forever trying to bring a picnic basket onto an Airbus A321.

In Conclusion: Travel Is Chaos (But It’s Ours)

It’s not glamorous, and it’s not first class, but we’re together. Jamie, Alida, me—and the ghosts of Texans past. I’ve got window seats on history, a haunted hotel, the chance to embarrass my wife at security, and maybe even a romantic night or two once the sun goes down.

Here’s to flying coach, sweating through Training calls, and walking toward whatever weird memories we make next.

I’ll let you know if anything goes bump in the night—or if TSA finally bans picnic baskets for being “too charming.”