Tatiana istomina and her son leo reflect on a texas-sized start to the new year

by Tatiana Istomina and Leo Mossessian Cot

What we loved:

Dad: Briskets. Ribs. San Antonio River Walk. Mexican food. Spanish missions.

Leo: Dogs! We met seven. One was seventeen years old! And blind! And still happy! The hot tub!!! And legos! Ice-cream! Paper airplanes in the playground! The zoo was OK, I guess. But no to the Dippin’ Dots.

Me: Cacti: their tight limbs, complicated shapes. The women: Meg, Liz, Joey, and others I met: brilliant and capable, and tough, and incredibly generous. The men, too: smart, courteous, gracious, affable. The dogs. The birds.

My favorite thing was walking from the studio back to the house, taking the long way along the river in early twilight. Black birds perched in the upper branches of trees, calling loudly — whole flocks of them, likely grackles. Sometimes they would rise, circle, still calling, then settle again on trees, on wires. I would stop and watch. Promised myself I’d come back — for the art, the artists, the wonderful, brilliant people I met, sure — but for the birds, too.

We were so excited about the trip! My son Leo had never been to Texas. His dad had been there before, but years ago, and he was eager for another taste of Texas’ ribs and brisket. I had also visited Texas in the past, but that was before Leo was born, and I wanted him to meet my friend Joey, who lives in San Antonio and has two boys of her own.

We decided to come before New Year’s Eve. We love the New Year, because we like to start things fresh: new resolutions, new lives, new everything. We believe that the way you begin the New Year, shapes how you’ll live it. This time, we thought, we’d start it in Texas. See what happens.

We arrived on Dec 28th still wearing our winter jackets, hats and scarves — it had been snowing in New York when we left. In the airport, we peeled them off, feeling self-conscious among people in shorts, sundresses and cowboy hats. Texas, we thought. Warm. But as soon as we stepped outside, we had a change of heart. Jackets went back on. Scarves too. Hats — certainly. It wasn’t much warmer than New York. True, there was no snow — but that day, snow didn’t seem out of the question.

We dropped our suitcases at the house — so big! so cold! and with a cactus in the front yard! — turned on the heating (thanks Meg and Liz!), and walked to Dough Pizzeria, our mittened hands deep in our pockets. Where’s everyone? Leo asked me. He’s never seen an empty street before.

On our way back, we paused to marvel at the display of cacti in full Christmas decor in someone’s front yard. Leo paused for a picture.

Three days later, we were sweating through our sunscreen at the San Antonio zoo. It was hot! Sweltering. And humid, too. Leo was grumpy. I knew the only thing that could help was ice-cream. Joey bought him a cup of Dippin’ Dots. Leo stared at the blue beads, touched one with the tip of his finger — he had never seen anything like it. He put a microscopic doze on his tongue, out of politeness. The rest sat in the sun, melting slowly. Eventually, it went into trash. We had animals to see.

The animals looked like they were hot, too. The male silverback gorilla lay flat on his back, one foot lifted against the wall. The vultures sat motionless with their backs to the sun, wings spread out. Even the hippo looked hot, even though he was in a pool. Leo was jealous: he wanted a dip in a pool, too. Then Joey and the rest of our friends left. Leo wanted to stay, to look for the proper ice cream. We did. There was none. I don’t like it here, he said. As always, dad saved the day. He used his phone to locate an ice-cream parlor not far from the zoo and drove us there. Ordered a double-chocolate Oreo cone for Leo. Texas is all right, I guess, Leo said. Was he ready for more of it? He was. 

And there was more! Hikes in the canyon, museums, Spanish missions, sunsets, boys of all ages, dogs of all sizes, pickleball games, playgrounds, paper airplanes.

We did all we could to shape our lives in the coming year in the best possible way. On our flight back to New York, we made lists.

What we loved:

Dad: Briskets. Ribs. San Antonio River Walk. Mexican food. Spanish missions.

Leo: Dogs! We met seven. One was seventeen years old! And blind! And still happy! The hot tub!!! And legos! Ice-cream! Paper airplanes in the playground! The zoo was OK, I guess. But no to the Dippin’ Dots.

Me: Cacti: their tight limbs, complicated shapes. The women: Meg, Liz, Joey, and others I met: brilliant and capable, and tough, and incredibly generous. The men, too: smart, courteous, gracious, affable. The dogs. The birds.

My favorite thing was walking from the studio back to the house, taking the long way along the river in early twilight. Black birds perched in the upper branches of trees, calling loudly — whole flocks of them, likely grackles. Sometimes they would rise, circle, still calling, then settle again on trees, on wires. I would stop and watch. Promised myself I’d come back — for the art, the artists, the wonderful, brilliant people I met, sure — but for the birds, too.