A trip down memory lane

Yesterday we celebrated grandson Jack's second birthday at the Love Field Museum of Flight, but that's another post. This one centers on what happened afterward.

Needing to discuss Thanksgiving plans, we adjourned to a nearby Mexican restaurant, Cantina Laredo in Inwood Village. As my son was telling me the location, my mind was skittering back to my childhood and teen years. I knew the place, but by another name. I'd practically grown up there when it was an El Chico's, as my dad had had business in Dallas nearly every weeknight. It was cheaper to feed the family--and far more efficient as far as he was concerned--to go to Dallas and pick up the parts he needed for the next day's repairs than to wait for them to arrive via the bus or mail. My mother liked El Chico's.

We made friends with the other regular customers and had our favorite waitress. We even attended her wedding mass. I think she later divorced.

I was interested to see if any of the old was left to the place. I remembered it as being very very pink. And huge. There was an upstairs where we rarely ate as it would have been reserved for parties. There were two paintings, very large, on opposite side walls. One was of a beautiful young Mexican woman reclining in a garden and the other of an Aztec sacrifice, complete with stone altar and young maiden. What would remain?

Not the pink. No telling how long that had been gone. The ceiling was lowered, there was a bar down one side, where there had been booths (pink), and the place had shrunk. Hmmm. But the paintings were still there and they too seem smaller, but still too large for any wall in my home. The place wasn't as brightly lit either as I remember it. The ambiance was just different. The food was very good and the service great.

As far as that goes, there wasn't the $1.99 plate of enchiladas, either.

The times, they do change.

When airports were fun

I was thinking, as we were going through security at Love Field, Dallas, that airports used to be fun places. Now they just seem to be places to get through, means to ends, be they business or pleasure.

At Love Field, the security lines partially cover a wonderful floor piece, a tile map of the world, polar projection, if memory serves. I remember that as a little girl my sister and I would walk all over this map and imagine faraway places. Were we at Love for a flight? No, we were there for fun.

Growing up, Sundays meant church, lunch out more often than not, and then a trip into Dallas. Sometimes we'd go to a movie or visit the zoo (for us), sometimes go through model homes (for Mother) or new car lots (for Daddy), or go to Love Field.

At that time, there was a huge stuffed giraffe in the center of the lobby. One could take the escalator up to the observation deck and watch the planes come in and out. On sunny days, I remember walking out on the roof deck and watching them from there. I'm sure there were gates, but people would go onto the tarmac to board. (We did this the last time in Hobart, Tasmania, three years ago. I had thought the practice long gone and was so glad it was not.)

There was a Polynesian restaurant on the deck level and I can close my eyes and see it and smell it. Of course, one mustn't forget the bathrooms and the dimes needed to use all the ladies stalls but the one free one. People would leave the pay-stalls and hold the door open for the next person.

It was fun. Our airport was fun. Then things changed, and they're not going back, but it's good to have the memories.