Oaxaca

Oaxaca represented a happy medium between Mexico City’s relentless progress and Antigua’s eerie encapsulation. The buildings are baked in bright colors and colonial styles, but there is still a feeling of change and vitality.
This town of 200,000 was where I studied Spanish for a week, where I walked, watched and met a lot of people. Though a magnet for tourists, I felt both comfortable and accepted there for more than just my financial pull. I took salsa classes with an incredibly hyper instructor, found a bar that felt like home (they played both jazz and Bjork), and spoke Spanish constantly.


A lot of the photos in the culture sections are gleaned from all the richness I found in Oaxaca. I was privileged to see democracy, or lack of it, in action. The arts were bold and omnipresent. And the food was rich and delicious, except when I was sick with dysentery.


But for all my activity, this is where my frenetic New Yorker sensibility finally slowed. The hot noonday sun necessitated frequent spells sitting in the elegant zocolo to watch children chase pigeons.

 

Oaxaca’s zocolo, like many others, was home to pigeons and passing the time. It was a good spot to retreat from the mid-day heat, eat lunch, and strike up conversation with someone. It was the logical place to meet friends or watch people.

 

The many competing lunch counters in the Mercado 20 de Noveimbre were the spot for a
quick, cheap mole dish and a horchata drink.

 

La dona, who made a mean red mole sauce.

 

The expansive Oaxacan sky and one of its less polished facades.

 

All the street sweepers used large, natural straw brooms; there were many variations on how to carry goods
on one’s body, including on top of the head or with a strap around the forehead.

 

The beguiling daughters of an employee at my language schools.

 

Scenes in and outside the Iglesia de Santo Domingo, a 17th century Dominican monastery converted into a museum.

 

 

One of the many busy restaurants on the zocolo; kids sold candy, gum and loose cigarettes at all hours.

 

Emily, a Zapotec woman I met through the school. We talked for hours about why Houston sucked, the lasting
traditions of her family, and struggling to move up the class ladder—including
selling candy at her college schoolmates to pay for a trip to the local beach.

 

The Iglesia de Santo Domingo, and those questing shade outside it.

 

Walking and sitting in colorful Oaxaca.