Oaxaca En Mente / Oaxaca On My Mind - Part 5

PART 5 OF 5 PARTS

ART AND HANDICRAFTS

Not everyone agrees on which art form best exemplifies Oaxaca. But for me it’s alebrijes, those fantastical, intricately painted wooden figures often combining features of different critters. Some say they represent spirit guides.

Pedro Linares

As much as I’d love to think the art form originated in Oaxaca with the pre-hispanic Zapotec or Mixtec cultures, the idea actually dates from the early 1940s and a Mexico City cartonero, or garbage collector, named Pedro Linares. The story goes that Linares, while in a fever-induced coma, dreamed he was in a magical forest, visited by surreal mash-ups of various animals. Some of them uttered a strange declaration: ¡Alebrije!

When he recovered he decided to give form to those visions, crafting the figures out of paper scraps and wheat glue.  

Then Linares’s work was discovered and afforded some exposure by Diego Rivera and Frida Kahlo. But it was only decades later, in the 1980s, that Oaxacan artisans, already carving various figures out of Copal wood, saw Linares’s work at an exhibition and began adopting its whimsical interpretations and vivid coloration—and the name alebrijes. *

I’m determined to take home a nice alebrije as a souvenir of Oaxaca. So I’m especially aware as I pass the many shops and street stalls selling them. There’s obviously a wide range of quality—and prices. So when the opportunity to learn more about the art form presents itself I jump on it.

That Friday, skipping my usual morning Spanish class, I head to a village, about 20 miles southwest of the city, called Arrazola, one of the two places in Mexico best known for the quality of its alebrijes.

      He induces chemical reactions...
      to make one color dramatically
      turn to another.

A young man in one of the talleres, or workshops, leads me through a stunning gallery of the finished product and into the family’s sunny, wood-scented studio. There he shows me the whole production process, from selecting, curing and priming the protium copal wood, to dreaming up the designs, to making the super-bright paints. 

He demonstrates how they make the colors by combining minerals with various raw materials, like oils or pulverized cochineal—a tiny, brownish scale insect widely used in red dyes, including those found in foods and beverages. He also induces chemical reactions, using readily available substances like lime juice, or even mezcal, to make one color dramatically turn to another.

He rubs these substances onto a rough sample shark figure, where the colors seem to materialize magically—even one combination that results in a surprisingly bright, pure white.

The muchacho explains how each critter they make represents the spirit essence of people born on a specific day of a specific year—even a specific time of day. In a tattered little book, he looks up my birthday and proclaims that my optimal spirit guide is the tortuga, a turtle.

While I realize this may be just a clever marketing pitch, I totally buy it and want to take home a really nice turtle. But even a small one, about the size of my hand, is priced at $5,000 pesos, or about $250, which I decide is a bit more than I want to spend.

My tortuga – made by a master

My patience pays off, because just two days later, in the sprawling artisans’ bazaar just erected on Alcalá, I meet Hedilberto Olivera, one of the most famous artists from the other village most famous for its alebrijes, San Martin Tilcajete. His work is incredible, smoothly carved, solid and intricately painted.

And…he has a tortuga of the same size as the one I’d passed up in Arrazola. And it’s only $150 usd. Deal!

The bonus is I get to chat with the artist, who seems delighted that this tall, very white old man speaks his language. I always enjoy this kind of personal, heartfelt transaction. (Ironically, after getting to know Hedilberto, I’d gladly have paid him the same 5,000 pesos I’d denied the nameless kid in Arrazola.)

Ceramics
Spirit animals aren’t the only art form to celebrate in Oaxaca. There’s also the pottery. In Santa Maria Atzompa, I visit the workshop of a family that makes elaborate, brown terra cotta pieces—most of them decorative figurines bedecked in hundreds and hundreds of little ceramic flowers.

The woman who welcomes us is, I suspect, a member of the Blanco or Vásquez families, whose antecedents established their signature style and brought world-wide renown to their village. With her two-year-old daughter looking on, she takes a few lumps of clay, which is dark gray when wet, and demonstrates how to make a small figure—a sort of demonic man-beast-spirit amalgam with horns and a tail—and a few small flowers.

Textiles
The next of Oaxaca’s outstanding handcrafted arts that I’m able to glimpse this trip is its sumptuous textiles. Many shops and galleries display gorgeous bags, table runners and, certainly the best known of Oaxacan weavings, the tapetes, or woolen rugs, with their rich colors and distinctive Zapotec motifs. (Sally and I already have a beautiful tapete which we bought from a Oaxacan weaver in Zihuatanejo, Guerrero.)

Some of the shops even feature their own pedal looms, though I don’t get to see the weavers in action.

For a broader sampling of the state’s textiles traditions, I visit the Museo de los Textiles, which exhibits works of weaving and embroidery in scores of distinct styles representative of various parts of the state.

They range from the Mazatec style embroidery—from the northern part of the state bordering on Veracruz—with patterns of animals and flowers rendered on white cotton muslin skirts and blouses; to a slightly more refined gancho style—from the eastern Istmo region; to very fine, tightly-woven, muted-color wool ponchos and serapes—from Teotitlan del Valle. 

Graphic Arts

Tlachiquero: one who
extracts agave "honey"

There are so many nice little galleries and workshops around Oaxaca’s historic center that it’s hard to walk a block without passing one. Alebrijes, pottery, textiles, and lots and lots of graphic art, which this former graphic designer especially appreciates.

I also wander into the elegant Graphic Arts Institute of Oaxaca, where an elegant young woman shows me around the exhibits, including some impressive old lithograph, etching and letterpress presses.

I decide not to spend a lot of time in the crowded print galleries, but I do manage to find a very nice, packable-size print, a composition of various Día de Muertos themes, at the El Pinche Grabador Gallery.

As with the other aspects of Oaxaca’s feast for the senses, I only have time for a few tastings of its art and handicrafts, and I’m leaving still hungry for more. Next time, I'll sample more: painting, basketry, black (barro negro) pottery, jewelry...

* Wikipedia

Oaxaca En Mente / Oaxaca On My Mind - Part 4

PART 4 OF 5 PARTS

FOOD AND DRINK

I must say I was expecting the food in Oaxaca, despite its exalted reputation, to be as unsurprising as I’ve found it in many parts of Mexico where people rave about the cuisine. It’s taken me a few years to figure out what the problem is: I simply don’t much care for tortillas. I know, sacrilege.

But a couple of factors make Oaxaca different. First, because it’s a fairly cosmopolitan place, there are chefs who experiment with fusions of tried-and-true Mexican staples like tacos, tamales and chilaquiles with more European styles and ingredients. Yes, the tortillas are still there, but these creations make me love them.

Another thing that helps is that Oaxaca is considered the mole capital of Mexico. Here, in the birthplace of this rich, complex sauce, there are no fewer than seven distinct types, each with its own characteristic color: rojo, coloradito, amarillo, verde, negro, chichilo, and manchamantel.

A mole is a blend of chiles, nuts, seeds, spices and, depending on the type, might include chocolate, plantains or tomatoes. (I know making it is labor-intensive because I’ve helped do it in a Mexican home.)

So, given Oaxaca’s reputation, it shouldn’t be a surprise that even my three-star hotel restaurant’s mole—the negro—is among the best I’ve ever tasted. Then, a couple days later, I try a dish called enchiladas en tres moles at a different restaurant, and a new standard is set.

I’m usually pretty cautious about eating food from street vendors, especially when there are fresh, uncooked ingredients. But one offering I just couldn’t resist was a dish called molote.

Molote and taquito

Molotes are golden-brown, kind of turd-shaped bundles with potatoes and other delicious ingredients stuffed into a wrapper of corn dough and then deep fried. The lady puts one on my plate alongside a crispy taquito, then ladles some bean sauce over the top. Next, a mild, green chili sauce, some lettuce, and finally a generous scattering of queso fresco, that ubiquitous crumbly white cheese that adorns so many Mexican dishes.

      The grasshoppers are...whole
      and entirely recognizable for
      what they are.

Another dish stands out—as much for the shock factor as its culinary appeal. One evening I try a chicken breast stuffed with chapulines, roasted grass- hoppers. And, no, the grasshoppers are not ground up into some innocuous powder; they’re whole and entirely recognizable for what they are. Nonetheless, as long as I avoid looking at it, the meal is superb.

Also on my list of must-tastes is the tlayuda, sometimes unjustly referred to as Mexican pizza. It’s a dinner-plate-sized crispy corn tortilla smeared with bean paste and asiento (unrefined pork lard), and topped with cheese, salad veggies and some kind of meat. It’s lovely, but I wish I had a fridge in my hotel room, as it’s a lot of food for a shrinking old man whose appetite’s further stunted by the sudden change to a warm climate.

One of the meat options for your tlayuda is tasajo, described as a thin slab of salt-cured beef, resembling jerky. But it’s nothing like jerky, not nearly as dense, chewy or intense. In fact, I find it very hard to distinguish the one I'm served from another cut of beef I like, a flank steak called arrachera. Thanks to the curing process, both are usually fairly tender, but quite salty.

       I find that hot chocolate is on
       just about every restaurant’s and
       coffee shop’s menu.

Oaxaca’s also famous for its cheese. The most common one, known as quesillo, is a white, semihard cheese, similar to un-aged Monterey Jack, but with a texture similar to string cheese. (We even buy it fresh when we’re in Zihuatanejo, one state to the north, from a guy who dispenses it from a big plastic bucket along the main beaches.)

Yet another food—if you can call it that—that distinguishes Oaxaca from the rest of Mexico is its chocolate. I’ve tasted it in many forms, but the way I most enjoy it is either in the raw, chunky form used for cooking, or in liquid form, as hot chocolate.

In Oaxaca, I find that hot chocolate is on just about every restaurant’s and coffee shop’s menu. You order it made with either water or milk. And it’s absolutely to die for.

Another typical drink—fascinating, but one for which I would not die—is  tejate, a traditional beverage sold by street vendors which dates from pre-hispanic times. It’s a thin, milky brew of pulverized corn, seeds of the mamey fruit, cocoa flower and honey—served cold. Unappetizing globs of the corn solids float on top. But it has an interesting, mildly sweet, refreshing flavor. Let’s call it an acquired taste.

And, as long as we’re including drinks, I mustn’t forget mezcal. Oaxaca is said to be the birthplace of the spirit, made from juices of the agave plant—just not the blue Weber agave that defines genuine tequila. In fact, over 90 percent of Mexico’s production occurs in Oaxaca. I’m no expert on either libation, but it appears mezcal has even more varieties than tequila’s blanco, reposado and añejo.

It falls first into three broad categories: mezcal, mezcal artesanal, and mezcal ancestral. Within those genres there are about half a dozen classes, the most common of which parallel those of tequila. There are also a few variations involving extra distillation, aging vessels of different materials, and infusions of other flavors.

In 1994, mezcal obtained its Appellation of Origin, certifying its provenance from Oaxaca or one of several surrounding states. Once considered a cheap high, infamous for its burn—and the real worm pickled in each bottle—many mezcals now take themselves quite seriously, some occupying higher shelves than tequilas in liquor stores.

As foo-foo as the stuff has become, I still find the mezcal sold by a guy on the street corner in Zihuatanejo in repurposed plastic soda bottles to be the best I've tasted.

In two weeks of not-very-aggressive exploration, I know I've barely scratched the surface of Oaxaca's wellspring of dining and drinking delights. Still unchecked on my list: memelas, enmoladas, caldo de piedra, just to name a few. Just that many more reasons to come back!

Stay tuned! My next post in the series, Art and Handcrafts, should be landing here in the next day or two.

Oaxaca En Mente / Oaxaca On My Mind - Part 3

PART 3 OF 5 PARTS

LANGUAGE SCHOOL
I don’t recall when I first realized the sheer genius of building my travel adventures around language school. The first of many advantages is the cost of the Spanish classes. Instruction in Latin America, obviously by native speakers, is typically a fraction of the cost of comparable classes here at home. Even for private, one-on-one sessions.

Another factor is that if one takes advantage of lodging provided by a language school—usually a choice between a dorm-style room in the school and a home stay with a nearby family—that cost, too, is a fraction of what one would pay for a room in even a modest hotel.

My home-stay family in Boquete, Panama

Thirdly, a benefit that’s especially valuable when you're traveling solo, attending language school affords you a ready-made circle of friends and a very flexible array of extra-curricular activities to choose from. Cooking classes, salsa dancing, volunteer service and any number of excursions ranging from in-town walks to entire weekends in the boonies.

  You either put together an intelligible
  request or you go without that cerveza.

One of my Spanish school cohorts

So far, I’ve built trips around language schools in Panama, Cuba and several times in Mexico.

When you want to get really good at a language, it takes a lot of work, a lot of discipline. Of course there’s learning all the grammar, memorizing the conjugations, growing your vocabulary. But once you’ve laid that foundation, nothing cements it and builds your confidence like being totally immersed in the language. Sink or swim; you either put together an intelligible request or you go without that cerveza. 

The quality of teaching I’ve seen in my language schools has varied greatly. Stands to reason most of the instructors have been young people—usually in their 20s to early 30s. And few of them have had the presence, not to mention the knowledge and experience, to be super effective teachers.

If you go this route, I encourage you to be as clear as you can up front with the school director about what you want to accomplish. I’ve found myself in a few unproductive classes where either I was placed in a group of students not at my level, or the instructor wasted time on material I’d already mastered.

Learning a language is exhausting. Be sure not to, as I have, schedule so many hours of instruction every day that you burn out. Balance is key. For example, I now know to ask for one or two hours a day of formal classroom instruction and a couple more hours of more relaxing, real-world practice—what I call “learning on the fly.”

Frida and I visit the textiles museum

       The goal...is to abandon myself
       to the rhythm of the conversation.

That is, doing some sort of activity—like exploring the area, meeting locals or simply sitting and chatting over coffee or a beer—with a teacher who knows how to engage you and then lets you talk. Not every teacher can pull that off, steering and correcting you without interrupting the flow of conversation.

The goal, at least at my advanced level, is to abandon myself to the rhythm of the conversation, to attain that magical flow where the process no longer involves any conscious translation or awareness of rules. Where my brain goes right from the idea to its expression—preferably in 95 percent correct Spanish. (Dare I aspire to my ultimate goal, to speak decent Mexican Spanish with no foreign accent? I can dream…)

My school in Oaxaca is Becari Manual Bravo, which I found on-line. It stood out from the dozens of other language schools in the city because the director was quick to show me that I was communicating with a real, smart, caring human being. (This is how I make many of my travel decisions—lodging, tours, services, etc.) 

Sandra Rivera Bennetts is a truly remarkable woman. I hear she and her sister founded Becari Language School years ago. Apparently, there was some kind of dust-up between them and they ended up splitting the school into two cooperating, yet separate campuses.

The first day I walk into the school’s airy inner courtyard, Sandra greets me like an old friend and administers the assessment exam to determine the level of my Spanish. No surprise, it shows I’m fairly advanced, but with weaknesses in the use of both the imperative and subjunctive voices.

Becari M. Bravo's airy courtyard, surrounded by classrooms

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Sure enough, on my first morning in the classroom, teacher Andrea starts mapping out the rules and usage guidelines for exactly those two skills. She's a thoughtful, well-prepared, engaging teacher. Over the next two weeks, with the help of both classroom drills and homework exercises, I learn to better understand both areas and, by the end of week one, I’m acing my homework. Now it’s just a matter of putting what I know into practice.

My other main expectation of my Spanish learning is to have unstructured time just chatting with a teacher and perhaps other locals. That hope is met in expert fashion by my two other teachers. Each morning at 11:00 my second teacher, Frida, leads me on a one- to two-hour walk, exploring some of the central city’s interesting, artsy barrios. We also take a couple of half-day excursions to natural wonders and craft artisans’ workshops in nearby villages.

A pottery artisan demonstrates her technique

And my 2:00 PM “class” is a conversation session with Gary, who's really good at sustaining a dialogue about a wide range of topics. Another reason he’s such a good teacher is that he’s a student of language himself. We talk about the nuances and curiosities of language in general and Spanish in particular. He’s also a great storyteller, knowledgeable beyond his years not just in the language, but also in Mexican and Oaxaca history, arts and culture.

Gary and I converse in the courtyard

It’s a wonderful and, I think, effective two weeks of polishing my Spanish. Becari M. Bravo is far and away the best language school I've attended. With their capable help, I think I've jacked up both my level of proficiency and my confidence at least a notch. Perhaps the best measure of success is that for the whole time I speak very, very little English. A true immersion experience.

Stay tuned! My next post in the series, Food and Drink, should be landing here in the next day or two.

Oaxaca En Mente / Oaxaca On My Mind - Part 2

PART 2 OF 5 PARTS

DIA DE MUERTOS
When I walk into the airport terminal, signs of Oaxaca’s early preparations for Día de Muertos are already evident. Even the narrow corridor from the arrival gate to Mexican customs and immigration is lined with art depicting one aspect or another of the occasion.

 
As I get settled in la Casa Conzatti and check out the hotel’s immediate surroundings, vendors are already selling bunches of golden cempasuchitl (marigolds) and fuchsia cresta de gallo (cock’s comb), the two flowers considered staples in decorating for the holiday.

Many families and some shops, including my hotel, are starting to build their altars, the often-multi-tiered displays of flowers, food and drink, and religious symbols thought to encourage and welcome home departed loved ones.

As the week unfolds and the radius of my exploring widens, I see more and more altars going up, from a simple four-foot circle of marigold petals and a couple of photos on the floor to seven-level extravaganzas designed, as one person explained, to represent the seven stages of a soul’s journey to a state of eternal rest.

In front of some shops what looks like truckloads of flowers get dropped on the sidewalk. Soon, the shops will be festooned in them, peopled with life-size or even gigantic catrina skeleton figures, and their façades even painted with special Día de Muertos murals.

The catrinas are sometimes arranged in real-life settings, like sitting on a bench reading a newspaper or making out with a partner. One huge one—about three stories tall—goes up overnight to loom over the Alcalá, the central historic district’s all-pedestrian street.

As the pivotal days of the celebration, November first and second, approach, the big Santo Domingo Church is putting the finishing touches on its massive outdoor altar. With seven levels and two large marigold arches, the thing extends at least 50 feet wide.

Even our school, Becari Manuel Bravo, builds an altar. I help trim the bushels of cempasuchitl, while teachers and other students pitch in to build the framework and arrange the other, non-floral elements: skeletons, candles, a Virgin of Guadalupe figure, Pan de Muertos—a special Day-of-the-Dead bread—fruit, and even bottles of Coke and mezcal.

I and a couple of other students have brought photos of deceased loved ones—in my case, my parents—to put on the finished altar. I think Mom and Dad would be pleased. Especially Dad, who would have loved to take his yen for learning Spanish this far.

      By mid-week, it looks like about
      a quarter of the people I see are
      skeletons or zombies. 

The atmosphere in the central city seems to be building to some kind of crescendo. I wander across what look to be spontaneous parades, with people walking and dancing, some of them animating 15-foot paper mache figures, in all kinds of costumes, and moving to the boom and blare of brass bands. I discover that some of these dazzling processions are just folks celebrating weddings.

The main parade, the Magna Comparsa, takes place every year on October 27. Starting at El Llano, the large park about two blocks from my hotel, it winds through town for a couple of miles, pulsing with music and dance.

There are costumes and paraphernalia representing every corner of the state and every cultural heritage. The energy is incredible. The strains of one band conjoin with, then give way to those of the next. We spectators, many of us with cameras held high, press out onto the street where volunteers struggle to clear the parade route.

The next morning, right in the middle of my daily walk to school, a block-long artisans’ market has popped up along Calle Alcalá, under a tent that spans the entire street, from the imposing wall of the Botanical Garden to structures on the other side. You either have to walk through a teeming gauntlet of vendors and shoppers or go a couple blocks out of your way.

Down at Plaza de Santo Domingo, it seems like something festive is going on at just about any hour of the day. There are food, art and handicrafts vendors; street performers; people laughing, dancing or just strolling; and make-up artists, dozens and dozens of make-up artists. And they’re all busy. By mid-week, it looks like about a quarter of the people I see are skeletons or zombies.

And at night, Santo Domingo is humming even louder, with music, dancing, pop-up celebrations of one kind or another…even some super-flamboyant trans folks dressed and made-up to the nines.

One of the central intentions of my vision for the trip was to visit a cemetery, both during the day to observe families’ preparation of loved ones’ tombs and during the night of November first, when they gather around the graves to share remembrances, play music and sing, and maybe enjoy a picnic.

As I did a decade ago in the small mountain village of Naolinco, in Veracruz, I also wanted to buy an armload of flowers and leave one or two stems on graves that look abandoned. (I don’t know why this idea so appealed to me; maybe it was a way of giving some purpose to my intrusion besides just gawking and stealing a photo.)

But the cemetery experience in Oaxaca proves very different from the one I enjoyed in Naolinco. The first small one I checked out, in the Xochimilco barrio, was pretty depressing. Very little color besides lifeless shades of gray; many of the graves in severe disrepair, if not derelict; only a handful of people there tending to them.

     I poke my head in and see three
     generations of the family, all smiling
     and saying ¡Bienvenidos! 

Another big difference, I figure, is simply that Naolinco is a village of 20,000 inhabitants; Oaxaca is a city roughly 40 times bigger. I shouldn’t expect to walk down the street and be invited into people’s homes for tamales and horchata, or a shot of mezcal.

Still, I do get one such invitation in Oaxaca. I’m walking along a side street and pass a home with its door open and a beautiful altar inside. I poke my head in and there are three generations of the family, all smiling and saying ¡Bienvenidos! No tamale, but I chat for a few minutes with grandma, mom and daughter about the parents/grandparents pictured on their altar, and leave feeling blessed, both for the friendly welcome and my command of the language.

The next day I walk about a mile to the main cemetery, El Panteon San Miguel. I’d read and heard that it's been closed since the severe earthquake five years ago which damaged many of the mausolea. The guard tells me, oh no, we’re open every day until 8:00 PM.

So, on the night of Todos Santos, All Saints Day, I return. The cemetery, about the size of four city blocks, is crowded, but not with the people I’d expected. Instead of families communing with their departed, it’s mostly folks like me, there, apparently, just to witness this most intimate of Día de Muertos traditions.

Nonetheless, I do manage to buy a big bunch of flowers and do my thing, lending a spot of color and paying at least token respects to about twenty forgotten souls.

 

 

I observe—from a distance—the few families who are there to connect with spirits of their difuntos. As they gather around flower-swathed, candle-lit graves, some are quietly talking, perhaps sharing memories. Others are playing music. A few people look like they're praying.

As I reflect on the whole Day of the Dead experience in Oaxaca, I realize that these unforgettable sights and sounds—and the emotions they stir—capture for me the depth and breadth of Mexican culture as no other experience has. 

It's the rich tapestry of all the different regional cultures coming together;
a spiritual energy that embraces, rather than fears, death; the enviable cohesiveness of families; a tangible sense of pride in place and patrimony; and the irrepressible joy that Mexicans, like few other nationalities, bring to it all. 

Stay tuned! My next post in the series, Language School, should be landing here in the next day or two. 

Oaxaca En Mente / Oaxaca On My Mind

The Oaxaca Series
Instead of the tedious, chronologic journaling format that’s so common in people’s trip reports, I’ve decided to organize my Oaxaca posts by category, by the four main themes of my experience: 1) language school; 2) Day of the Dead; 3) food and drink; and 4) arts and handcrafts—and the following brief introduction to lay the groundwork. So here goes…

                    ~    •    ~    •   ~   

INTRODUCTION

I’d been wanting to visit Oaxaca for years.

Due to my ever-growing interest in Mexico—fueled in great part by my late-in-life quest for fluency in Spanish—I’ve managed to at least set foot in about half of the country’s 31 states.

From the arid lowlands of Sonora to the temperate, mile-high central plateau called the Valley of Mexico, to the upmarket tip of the Baja Peninsula, gateway to the Sea of Cortez; from the tropical Pacific coast string of beaches known as La Costa Grande to the cool, mountainous forests and unique Gulf Coast flavors of Veracruz. I’ve loved it all.

But Oaxaca, the furthest south of any of these climes, has always had its own special appeal. First of all, for the virtues everyone talks about: the food, the art and handcrafts, the mezcal.

But there’s also the state’s unique fusion of several indigenous cultures, whose colors, flavors and customs are ever-present in day-to-day life. Oaxaca City’s Día de Muertos (Day of the Dead) celebration—a blend of those pre-Columbian traditions with the European, Catholic traditions imposed by the invading Spaniards—is generally regarded as one of the most spectacular anywhere in Mexico.

I can see why the city’s such a popular destination for both Mexicans and world travelers. Part of the appeal is its apparent small scale. I’m seeing no buildings with more than two stories.

I learn that the reason for the buildings’ limited stature is a variation of the old saw, the bigger they are, the harder they fall. Earthquakes are so common here that taller structures just aren’t considered safe. This is also the reason, I’m told, that building walls tend to be quite thick here.

The weather is ideal at this time of year. By late October the rainy season is all but over. Temperatures reach the mid-70s to 80 degrees Fahrenheit during the day and fall into the lower 60’s to mid-50s at night. Humidity’s low. With the city’s elevation just over 5,000 feet, the sun is powerful, but otherwise it’s a benign climate.

And a personal connection: Oaxaca, along the Pacific coast, is where my friend and compadre, Silverio, was born. He and his family, though he’s now a U.S. citizen, still hold the region’s traditions close to their hearts. I’ve always wanted to visit the state, if not the actual village, that’s so much a part of them.

So, last year, I was finally going to make it happen—a two-week trip to Oaxaca including the week-long celebration of Day of the Dead. I decided, as I often do when traveling in Latin America, to focus my activities on a language-learning objective. I enrolled in language school.

So it was all set. Then, as if that vision wasn’t perfect enough, my daughter, Amanda, asked if she could join me, enrolling in beginner’s Spanish. I was over the moon.

But COVID-19 put the kibosh on that dream.

RECLAIMING THE DREAM
This past spring, as it became evident that we were gradually, painfully moving past the pandemic, I decided to reclaim the dream. Only this time, sadly, Amanda wouldn’t be able to join me.

First, I made sure the language school I’d been in touch with, Becari Manuel Bravo, would still be a good fit for my ambitious pursuit of Spanish. Sandra, the school director, couldn’t have been any nicer or more helpful, offering to tailor an advanced program to my interests, and even recommending several possible hotel accommodations.

Well, I soon discovered that you don’t waltz into a Día-de-Muertos-week hotel reservation in Oaxaca city just four months ahead of time. I contacted all of Sandra’s suggestions and no fewer than 35 other hotels before I finally found an available room in a decent hotel.

Hotel Casa Conzatti

As for air connections, I was happy to find flights on the days I wanted—and at reasonable hours—for around $800 round-trip. Not a steal, but doable. And with just one stop each way—not in some city an acute angle and 1,500 miles away from a straight route—but right on the way, in Dallas / Fort Worth.

So, on Sunday, October 23, I’m up at 4:00 AM for my 6:30 flight, and the adventure begins.

Stay tuned! My next post in the series, Día de Muertos, should be landing here in the next day or two.

LA TERCERA ODA – The Sensory Joys of Zihuatanejo

I’m always trying to think of new ways to describe the enchanting beauty, the deliciousness, of Zihuatanejo, Guerrero, Mexico—a place I've come to think of as my second home. This is, I believe, the third time I’ve tried committing those reflections to paper. Or maybe the fourth.

There’s a pricy little boutique hotel just up the hill from our villa called Cinco Sentidos. It means the Five Senses. What a seductive name, and as good a motif as any for an homage.

                                     •    ~     •    ~    •

The ceiling fan flutters, barely perceptible, overhead. From one of the villas below a young girl’s voice rings out in a simple, sweet, repetitive song. Another sixty steps down, along La Escénica La Ropa, the workaday grunt and groan of backhoes and pipas—the lumbering water tank trucks whose numbers grow now that the dry season is here—lend a bass note to the searing hiss of car tires on hot pavement.

This morning, every morning, chachalacas in the trees or on thatched rooftops echo each other’s arresting, washboard rasp. Caciques, magpie jays and a couple of other little cantantes try to get a word in edgewise.

Now and then other noises blend in—sounds so characteristic of Mexico that even if I had no idea where I was they’d say bienvenidos: mariachis blare from one dude’s pickup; a super-hyped announcer voice promoting some event or sale or political candidate spills from another’s; children squeal in delight as they scamper down to Paty’s and the beach; and, once in a great while, the itinerant knife sharpener passes by, playing his haunting little flute ditty.

And behind all these now familiar sounds, always—always—the soft, languorous breath of the Pacific surf. In with each rising swell …and out with each breaking wave. An easy respiration that’s recurred every ten to fifteen seconds since long before there was a soul to hear it.

     The scent of the sea…silky, salty, alive.

NO SWEAT
Of course there are other senses coaxed and coddled by this place. A Minnesotan’s eyes, accustomed to the bland diet of white and shades of grey rationed out by a cold, dark winter, feast on a spicy guiso of color. The buildings, the foliage and flowers, the birds…the people themselves exude it.

Then there are the smells. Dust, smoke from nearby brush fires, fish at the market along the Paseo del Pescador, flowers at one of the town’s amazing florerías, the surprisingly floral smell of fresh corn tortillas. And something in the soaps they use here to mop tile floors and scrub sidewalks smells absolutely wonderful—unlike anything we use back home.

You’d think, with how warm it is and how hard people work here, some folks would smell sweaty. I may be guilty of romanticizing everything Mexican, but if there’s any unpleasant odor I’m not aware of ever having noticed it.

Once again, there’s the sea—its scent—that silky, salty, alive quality, wafting in on La Costa Grande’s faithful Pacific breezes.

And the flavors. Like Zihua’s rich color palette, they’re warmer, brighter than what we’re used to. Seafood, fresh as can be; exotic fruits; chilis of every stripe; a bright splash of lime juice; fresh Oaxacan string cheese from a big plastic bucket schlepped by a guy down on the beach; and mezcal, from the amateur to the artisanal, with its fruity, floral, spicy and smoky flavor notes.

Finally, there are the tactile enticements of this part of Mexico. The leathery hide and slight give of a perfectly ripe mango; the nubby hand of a fine woolen rug or runner you've been watching the weaver create; the slimy texture of nopales, the cactus that’s both a staple of Mexican cooking and a national symbol; the tickly sluicing away of sand underfoot by a receding wave.

And things you don’t want to touch: the armor-plate skin of a live crocodile; scorpions; certain spiders and caterpillars; the frightening spikes deployed by a sacred old ceiba (kapok) tree.

     I saw this extraordinary place in a way
   that is rare indeed for any traveler.

A FORCED SEPARATION
Tonight, after saying adios to Sally and several family members who’d been visiting, I wandered by myself down to Playa la Ropa for dinner. As the sun set behind Cerro del Almacen I savored a nice margarita, serenaded by a pair of really good musicians...and, of course, the surf.

Suddenly, the magic that Zihua radiates through all my senses kind of overwhelmed me, and I teared up.

It was like all these sensory intoxicants swept over me at once. And I saw this extraordinary place in a way that is rare indeed for any traveler, especially one who’s now been coming here for thirteen years. I saw it as if I’d never been here before.

As the date of my departure closes in on me, I must soak it all in, stash it in the chamber of my heart saved for very special, tender memories.

There the emotions will have to rest for eleven long months, a kind of forced separation from my poor, hungry senses. I’ll peek in now and then to make sure they’re all doing well. And then, next March, God willing, I will once again let them have their way with me...in Zihuatanejo.