I went back to the detour point and climbed past the theater to the two astonomical buildings. It turns out that they both were outcomes of a “pueblo to pueblo” program between Oaxaca and Palo Alto. Small, but important to have, speaking as someone to whom astronomy was incredibly vivid and important as a boy.

I walked back down the hill and stopped off at the stamp museum. A lovely little building that also housed the Organ Institute of Oaxaca, which preserves colonial organs here and also organzies concerts. The museum featured some lovely commemorative stamps from around the world, an entire room dedicated to mushroom stamps, a learning room for kids to learn stamp collecting, an exhibit of the history of mail, and a store that featured Mexican stamps to start a collection. A few thoughts here: the US has the lousiest stamps in the world (to match the lousiest currency), there’s been some incdreibly lovely artwork done on stamps from different countires, and, an exhibit on the history of mail seems more immeidate (as well as poignant) these days, as the US Postal service creeps closer to bankruptcy and irrelevancy.

After a few other errands, I walked to the cooking class and joined Sandra and a dozen others for a meal that they had prepared. This was located in another lovely B&B of 3 rooms owned by the same family, with a large kitchen. The food was really quite good, and I enjoyed the little I was able to learn in the short time I had with the group and its chef.

After our afternoon rest, Sandra & I headed back to the zocalo, stopping akong the way to get a gelato, and then joined many others in watching and eventually dancing at a “Danzon,”  a weekly outdoor dance hosted for free by the citiy. Lots of Oaxacans, older, up and dancing to older-sounding music played by a local orchestra of brass and strings. Seattle could stand to have something like this much more regularly than the few summer dances it has at the sculpture park.

We then joined a family and another dancing couple from our B&B for dinner. The father is an Iraqi Jew from Baghdad, just like Zamir, and we’ve enjoyed our encounters with him, his wife and his kids. They live in Newton, not far from my sister.

This morning, Sandra & I had to change rooms for our last night due to scheduling problems here (we knew about them before we came). Then we went to the ethnobotanical garden for a tour. I was completely incorrect about what and where the garden was in an earlier post. That was a different park, this was the real thing. The tour was led by a woman clearly from NYC who had lived in Oaxaca for 10 years. A ton of information about the 2 hours, about Oaxaca’s incredible biological diversity, about how older societies used different plants, about some of the cultural and anthropological history, etc. The time went by very quickly; I really enjoyed it.

We had lunch with another family we’ve met here, shared ideas about places to go on our next visit. talked about how we’ve changed as a result of this trip, and shared contact info. This is one of the nicer aspects to using a B&B instead of a hotel, and a number of people we’ve met here we’d be happy to see outside of this context.

What’s left: shopping for chocolate, mole, and other things, one more meal, then a taxi to the airport after breakfast tomorrow and a long trip home. This has really been a fabulous trip and vacation in the best sense of the latter. I do hope we can come back, and I do hope we keep up our Spanish. As confusing and mixed up with Greek as I’ve been, I’ve enjoyed my times attempting to speak, and enjoyed it when I could understand what was being said. I think there’s a good chance all the above could happen.

Monte Alban, a UNESCO World Heritage Site, is one of those places which you just have to visit if you’re anywhere near it. I took a tourist bus to get to the site, which is only 10 km from the city. On the bus there was a picture of Jesus crowned with thorns behind the driver’s seat, with the handpainted words below it, “Voy con Dios. Si no regreso, estoy con el!” Hardly reassuring, but this wasn’t one of those edge of the cliff rides, anyway. The trip went through some unattractive parts of town, with grafitti everywhere. As we got out of town, I got to see just how dry this area is. Dusty, burnt hills, with little in the evidence of topsoil.

After a sharp turn near the end of the trip, where our bus had to do some reversing to make its way around an S curve (reminded me of getting stuck in Galicnik two years ago), we parked, and I made my way to the entrance. There I paid 51 pesos (about $4.00, but why they had to add the extra peso is beyond me), and got my bearings.

I first went into the museum, which has collected some of the original stonework, jewelry, and other crafts. All the eplanations were in Spanish, so I did the best I could. Nice maps. It was good to have gone to the city cultural museum last week, as it prepped me well for this visit. There were some huge stones with inscriptions, apparently the first writing in the Americas, and in fact this civilization was flourishing well before the first millenium CE.

I left the museum and proceeded to explore the site itself. It’s quite impressive. The priest-led society flattened a mountaintop, created a state, made wars on its neighbors, gathered tribute from its conquered lands, figured out how to deal with water, set up astronomical observations, held rituals, and let the highest ranking folks live in relative luxury. Sounded a lot like ancient Egypt. I climbed stairs to the tops of structures after visiting the small necropolises on the outskirts (homes housed tombs). The long view was great; I hadn’t seen anything like it before. People were small figures with shadows on a huge plain, with monuments and pyrimidal-type stone structures carefully placed and aligned throughout. A picture I took reminded me of a scene from Last Year at Marienbad.

I wandered around for a few hours in the baking sun, trying to imagine life here so many years ago, thinking how little some things have changed re: societal hierarchies, wondering about the spiritual side of a society that castrates and enslaves its neighbors, comparing it to our own society’s litany of horrors, and trying not to get too worked up about all this. As one of the advantaged in this lifetime, I still question whether the work I have chosen/which has chosen me—helping children across different systems, but mostly the school system—has been the best use of my skills, time, and energy. Also, whether there is some way to share what technical and musical knowledge I have to make the world a better place. I have no desire to be a lay missionary, but this vacation has provided me with the time to reassess what it is that I am doing with my life.

On my return to our B&B, I met up with Sandra, who’d had a very nice day and was relaxed and thoughtful. She offered to the indigenous woman who worked with her in what sounded like an herbal sweat lodge to return and exchange massages. We talked some, had a late lunch, studied Spanish, ate dinner, and took it easy. I used my iPad to contact a friend from work, Jim, and we video-conferenced for about 20 minutes. I was able to show him some of the B&B, and describe my trip. This on the same day I was questioning the use of technology in general. Nothing’s simple. Thank goodness, in this case, as I wouldn’t trust it.

In another version of the water wars of the American west (cf. LA and the Colorado river, for starters), the center of town, which is the main tourist area, is physically a little lower than the rest of the city. So, water drains down into it first. It also gets priority due to the tourist money flowing in, and so you see trucks with “Agua Para Uso Humano” driving around with hoses to till up various restaurants and clubs, etc. when levels are low. Only when this central area is taken care of do the outer areas of the city get any water, if there is any left, that is. And of course, it is the poorestd of the city who live in the outermost areas. At least per this article.

Anyway, two days ago, I was also reading The Other Game, written in 2008 by a Maryknoll missionary who has spent a lot of time “in service” to the Mixtec campesinos of the Valles Centrales. He was writing to make a case for what we in the First World can and must learn from the these workers of the earth down here in terms of values, use of the environment, priorities, etc. Included in this was how NAFTA has been disaster for rural farmers here in Mexico, how corn, e.g., is dumped at prices more than 20% below production value, forcing farmers out of business and sending many of them to the city or to attempts to cross the border to earn enough money to survive.

The Mexicans aren’t stupid, of course, and one Mexican analysis of this situation talks about how the Mexican governement and international corporations are trying to get rid of the campesinos (sowing discord, or, in Monsanto’s case, sterile seeds) to force them off their communally owned land, so that they can take over the land and extract the resrouces it holds, all for profit, as opposed to for the benefit of humankind. It’s not really news to me, except in the local details, but when you’re temporarily living here as we are, and you’ve left a Bigfoot-sized carbon footprint just to get here, reading and thinking about these dynamics is sobering.

There are some reaffirming descriptions in the book of the campesinos reclaiming their land and refusing to buckle in front of superior (often military) forces. And the tensions and deaths of 2006 are still present here, just not as visible to the foreigner as they were 5 years ago. And the president of the Oaxacan state, designated as corrupt by the federal government, is still in power, somehow. I have’t talked with anyone here about politics, being both a newbie, and not having command of the language, but the subject follows me around wherever I go traveling, either here or in the Balkans.

A few days after we arrived, we texted him, and arranged to meet him on Friday. He brought his wife, and gave us directions via taxi to his home. They were staying with his in-laws, and in fact were moving into their new home on Christmas day; we were already invited to that. But he also said there was a fiesta for his wife’s family the next day, and we could come to that as well. In the meantime, they had to go off shopping.

So, Saturday we made our way to the area of the city where taxis gather to take folks to the outlying villages. We found ours and got underway. It was about a half-hour trip, northwest of the main city. There are speed bumps continually, but they are not marked, either with paint of signs, so I guess you just have to memorize all of them. The ride took us up toward the surrounding mountains, and we were deposited in front of the church in a small village called Santa Cruz Etla. It felt completely familiar, except for the language of the signs. Cinderblock or concrete houses with terracotta roofs. Dirt roads ourside the main square. We could have been anywhere in the Balkans. We texted Jesus, and he met us at the church. There was a wedding going on in the church, and Jesus said we should go inside. It turned out that it was his sister-in-law who was getting married! She and her husband had two kids, and apparently there was pressure from the church to make the union religiously official.

The church was small with simple decorations and therefore more bearable to Sandra and me. There was a woman playing guitar and singing accompanied by what looked like her son and daughter singing, and playing a tambourine. At one point, the played a version of Blowin’ in the Wind, the music, at least. In addition to the wedding ceremony, the couple also baptized their older daughter. After the ceremony, we threw rice and then walked up to the home for the wedding fiesta.

It was a typically relaxed afternoon, with homemade mezcal (one type of which was hot, reminding me of sake). Simple, homemade appetizers, soup, rice, beans, tortillas, etc. The groom asked us if we wanted to see them dig up the barbacoa, so we went and watched them. I videoed the process. A goat, cut into various pieces and covered with plantain leaves (?) had been baked on a grill and buried about 3 feet deep. They dug up the sand, removed the plantain leaves, and then piled the pieces into a large bowl. We were honored by being handed parts of the goat’s brain. I manged to get mine down, while Sandra surreptitiously got rid of hers. They took us into the kitchen where they wre cutting up the goat, and we also saw the women making tortillas on big, round baking stones. Afterward we got to eat the goat, which reminded both of us of paneyiris in Ikaria.

Dancing was really slow going, so we only did one corrido. Then they had some wedding games. Everyone got in the middle, many with baskets, the musicians played some known tune, and then everyone started throwing candy at each other. We ducked and managed to get back to our seats, and we gave what candy landed on us to some of the kids, except for two pieces of chocolate which we kept for ourselves “for emergencies.” There was another game where the bride and groom stood on separate chairs, each surrounded by and held up by women/men friends, with the groom holding the bride’s veil, making an arch. Then first the kids, then the men, and then the women in the party danced/skipped in a line under the arch, trying to knock the groom and bride off the chairs, with their friends tyring to keep them up. After this, there was a mock funeral procession, with the men carrying the groom, who was on his back with his arms out. Every so often, they’d toss him up in the air and catch him. Finally, they dressed the groom in an apron, purse, and broom, put one of his kids on one arm, and he went around sweeping up the dance floor, while his bride followed him with a belt, hitting him with it every so often.

We left early in the evening and took a taxi ride back to Oaxaca. We passed a float with young girls dressed up for a nativity scene, in front of which were some of those large human figures and a brass band. It was making its way to the zocalo, where there many other such floats circling. It being Christmas eve, it was quite crowded, but again, the energy was just fine. Fireworks of all sizes accompanied us home, and they also lasted well past midnight.

Christmas Day was very quiet. After breakfast we walked to get our taxi. In the zocalo, a symphonic band was playing Mendelssohn for the gathered audience (they had chairs set up as well), and, although not as crowded as the nights before, the square was full of families. We got our taxi and shortly found ourselves back in Santa Cruz Etla.

We walked up to Jesus’ house and arrived as the blessing of the house was occurring. The priest was reading a blessing and sprinkled holy water on the entrance and the owners. Someone broke a bottle of some kind of celebratory beverage on the entrance way, and then Jesus’ family (two young kids in addition to his wife) individually took turns cutting the red ribbon on the gate. We all went in and followed the priest to each room. This was pretty much the same as when I was growing up and our priest would come to the home and bless it, the difference being that this was a new house.

Tables were laid out already on the patio in the front, and the food and drink started arriving. So did a mariachi band, and they were actually very good and professional. Two violins, two trumpets, a bass guitar-type insttuemnt and a rhythm-type instrument (I don’t know the names of these), all acoustic, no mikes. The singers would stand in front of the band as they played, and they’d also go from table to table. Again, very familiar, except that you didn’t have to pay money to get the band to come to your table, as you would in a restaurant, since Jesus’ family was fronting everything.

We had chiccharrones and cheese appetizers, then a plate of tasajo (thinly sliced, grilled beef) and a chile relleno with beans and rice. All really tasty. Light mexcal, beer, and a heavier, higher-content alcohol in shot glasses accompanied this, as did tortillas.

The mariachis played a long set, then had their food. Meanwhile, the second band set up behind us, using drums and a synthesizer and possibly a gutar (I couldn’t see them well). They did cumbias and merengues, and corridoas, mostly with some Chilean dance thrown in. Although the tables and chairs had been moved to make space for dancing, again it was slow going. Sandra thinks it might be some kind of cultural shyness, as her experiences with non-indigenous cultures further south were filled with dancing at the slightest opportunity. Anyway, one of the older women on the side motioned for me to ask someone to dance, and so eventually I asked her, and we were the first ones up. As soon as I was out of the picture, somebody asked Sandra; it turned out he was drunk and a little over the top in holding her, to the point that one of the guys moved him a decent length away (Sandra was holding her own just fine, but the other guy was just being a gentleman). We must have danced with different folks for the next hour or so, and eventually the floor was covered with dancers having what one would think was a good time. A bit hard to tell for me, because there was no such thing as eye contact (at least with me), and very little smiling. But there were enough smiles now and then for me to think that my partners were enjoying themselves. I guess Sandra and I were enough out of the cultural norm that it was ok for us to ask or be asked to dance. And I’m glad we helped get things going after all the generosity we had experienced.

Sandra read a private toast to Jesus and his wife inside the house before we left; she’d worked on it the night before, and it, like everything else at the party, was videotaped. We thanked our hosts and said we would see them in Seattle. It turns out that many of the fellows at the fiesta had worked in or were still working and living in Seattle, at some of the restaurants we have eaten at. All in the kitchen, but if any return (several will be staying in the village), it would definitely be fun to see them and say hi.

The return trip home was a bit of an adventure. Being that it was Christmas and also a Sunday, taxis were far and few between up in the village. We ended up getting into one of the very small, golfcart-like vehicles used for short transport in the village. The driver took us across 4 small hills on dirt roads in the dark and finally deposited us at an intersection, saying we only had to walk five minutes to get to a taxi crossing with many more vehicles going into the city. We flagged one down and piled into the front seat (made for one), as the back was filled; no possibility of using a seatbelt, of course. The driver was a young guy who drove like a madman. I had my arm outside the window hanging onto the top of the door, while Sandra grabbed my other arm, my leg, my shirt, whatever she could hold onto. We weaved in and out across all the lanes, in between buses, cars, and trucks, went through a red light, etc. It was like being in a video game. Finally we made it back to the central taxi area and staggered home.

We both are very glad to have seen this side of life in Oaxaca the past two days. It made it seem more real, and getting out of the city was a good idea as well. Of course, going into La Carta de Oaxaca will never be the same again, in a good way.

In the morning we met Salime and her husband, Enrique, and infant, Leo. Slaime and Enrique are part of an artist collective, doing a lot of printmaking, and focusing on the spiritual aspects of male and female. He teaches art at the university, and she teaches dental hygiene there; like most artists, they need thier day jobs to fund their art-making.

Salime is the artist who made the praying mantis print that graces our living room in Tieton. It was the lead for the first printmaking show in Tieton. Sandra had gotten in touch with her with her usual diligence and persistence, contacting three different people to track her down. We had a very nice conversation with them over coffee and desserts. They gave us their 2012 calendar, and it was good for Sandra to talk about art.

We studied Spanish in the afternoon and then went out. Clearly, this was going to be a big party night for the town. There were vendors setting up everywhere, and the strollers were out in force early. We got down to the zocalo around 6:30. It was already jammed with people standing in line waiting to see the radishes. Now, these aren’t your everyday radishes, some growing very large. The artists set up tableaux, some, but not all, having to do with a nativity scene, or scenes of Oaxaca or regional traditions. In addition to the radishes, there are also exhibits using calendula blossoms, and (our favorite) leaves of the totomoxtle (the wild plant from which the many corn varieties come). The exhibition tables are set up 3/4 around the square, with double ramps to accommodate the viewers.

But before you can see these, you have to stand in line. And what a line…the equivalent of 7 city blocks when we got there, snaking back and forth on 3 streets, shepherded (if that’s the correct word) by city and federal police. We spoke briefly with a young journalist who was covering the evening for a local paper. She had a lot of good energy, is learning French as her 3rd language, and was very congenial.

While inching through this line, at no point did Sandra or I feel the slightest edginess from anyone in the crowd. There were many families there, very old folks and very young, and people were in a good mood. It wasn’t raucous, no one was drinking and virtually no one was smoking, either. It was a great opportunity for people watching. Some amazing and beautiful faces, smiles, gazes. Sandra and I have both noticed how people seem to look at each other here more than in the states. It’s not to say that people are unguarded, just that there seems to be more directness to many of the gazes.

We finally made it to the exhibit, hurrying through a police cordon the final steps. There was a lot to see. Some were more spectacular than others, some had terrific attention to detail. and most seemed to be the result of a lot of work. Fireworks on the square next to exhibit went off while we were halfway through. They were really close, and would never have made it through US safety laws. The Mexican (boys) sure love their fireworks, and this week at night has been filled with them, some so big they set off store and car alarms.

We made our way to the end and then headed back for a snack. We saw the drummers from the previous night, and it turns out they’re from Oaxaca itself. The next morning, all the exhibits were gone.

We then went over to one of the vestida booths we had seen yesterday which had some lovely work. The maker’s husband was staffing it, and we talked with him a while. Then Sandra tried some on and chose one. The man called his wife back from her walk, and they conversed in Zapotec; Sandra & I both think that although the woman understands Spanish, she doesn’t really speak it. She had won a prize in a national contest of some sort and had met Mexico’s president. The man gave us his card, with the name “El Toshiro” and a youtube link. He asked us to take a look, and later that night we did: it was a bunch of short videos of cowboys riding bucking bulls at a rodeo. We are going to see him again to get his e-mail address, and we’ll ask him what’s going on.

After a simple lunch, we spent the rest of the day at the city cultural museum, housed in an old convent attached to the Santo Domingo church. This was a great setting for the content, which was basically a complete history of the region, from prehistoric times, through the Spanish conquest, to the modern era. There were artifacts from the tombs at Monte Alban, which I will be going to next week while Sandra gets her temazcal treatment. Sandra & I both noted that no matter where you were in the world, or what time, if you could establish yourself as some kind of elite (spiritual, political, warrior), you basically got a free ride from the majority (poor) population. Another aspect we noted was that of community service in the pueblos, where apparently people served the community in some kind of governmental rode for free, as part of a service to all. It seemed from the pictures that this was men only, but given what we’ve seen here, that would surprise me if that hadn’t changed by now. There also was a photo show in the museum of works by Flor Garduno, whom I didn’t know. I acutally enjoyed a lot of her work, and Sandra & I both thought of Rebecca and wondered if she knew of her.

Dinner and then a stroll around the zocalo, where, for once, not much was happening besides other people walking around (traidtion still happening here, and which I enjoy).

Yesterday, we met Jesus, from La Carta de Oaxaca restaurant in Ballard. We had planned to see him when we learned he was going to be here the same time we were. I had asked him one night while we were eating if he knew of any good restaurants in Oaxaca, since we were going to be there over Christmas. He said he was going to be there, too, and then he invited us to come to his home. Jesus brought his wife to our place, and we all walked to the zocalo, where he gave us instructcions on how to take a cab to his home on Saturday (for a party with his wife’s family) and Sunday (for a housewarming for their new home). It will be interesting, to say the least.

They went off to do shopping for all their parties, and we headed over to the contemporary art museum. We saw the rest of the Tamayo biennial, and didn’t see much that we liked. The same guide was there as before, and spent a lot of time with us. A very sweet young man, who learned English from Disney shows on TV and is thinking of being an artist.

Lunch and a siesta were followed by studying Spanish on our roof while Sandra had a hot chocolate and I had my first mexcal here; smoky and pretty smooth. We then went over to the graphic arts museum, which was giving a show of a graphic artist from the turn of the century. That form was TV for much of the population at that time, and it contained a lot of the satire as well as depicted the prevailing mores of the era. There also was a room dedicated to his use of calaveras—stylized skeletons—that have become one of the 5 national symbols, and which most folks know from Day of the Dead ceremonies.

We walked back to the zocalo for a concert in a church we’d seen advertised. This was the local estudiantina—similar to a community instrumental and vocal ensemble of all ages—performing their Christmas concert. It was very cute, with the rows of kids moving back and forth unevenly while they sang, surprisingly good tambourine playing by a few of the boys, and simple, easy-to-sing songs from the Spanish tradition. Again, you saw faces you would rarely, if ever, see in Seattle (or even in Mexico, Sandra says). Kids are well-loved here.

The zocalo was packed, and they were preparing for the big radish sculpture festival tomorrow (I will write about that after we go). So, Sandra & I walked back up the Alcala to find dinner. On the way, we listened to a very good street drum ensemble. We thought they were from Columbia or Brazil, due to the obvious African influence, but when we looked up the flag colors back in our room, it showed Bolivia. This didn’t make any sense to either of us, but there’s a lot (most) that I don’t know.

We went to a textile museum after that. Sandra’s very interested in seeing different textiles, partially for being an old 4-H girl, and partially for the art work. The museum was very nicely laid out with some striking pieces in semi-dark rooms, from different villages and from different times. The notes introducing the exhibit spoke of the artists as belonging to the people known as “The People of the Clouds.” Even with the strong traditions here, you still have the usual gradual disappearance of the older arts, patterns, symbols, and this exhibit was meant to show the lines of continuity that still exist. Again a reminder of one of the differeneces between humans and other life forms on the planet, as these don’t serve a function, but come from some other need. And they are not merely decoration either.

We continued south to the zocalo at the southern end of which was a continuing demonstration by Indians of the San Juan Copala pueblo. There are at least 15 different indigenous groups in this region, each with its own language. This group was protesting the use of paramilitary troops to terroize their population, which wanted more autonomy for self-government (at leat, that’s what we could make out). 10% of the women have been raped, many folks killed, etc. Sounds way too familiar. The women dress in red shifts and look different than the on-street Oaxacans that we see daily. I didn’t take any pictures.

We continued around the square. People selling all kinds of crap, just like anywhere else where there’s a fair or a crowd. But not an unfriendly crowd, and no one in a rush. Also, very few cigarette smokers. I don’t know if this is based on economics, or the ban on smoking in public places that’s supposedly in effect. Unlike in Greece, we can eat in restaurants without any smoke whatsoever. The few people we’ve seen smoking are mostly young, and mostly male. In that regard, this place isn’t that different from the rest of the world, where the men seen hellbent on killing themselves, if they don’t kill the rest of all of us first.

After a nap,we went out to the restaurant I thought had moved to Houston. Turns out they were open after all. You enter through the door and find yourself in an open courtyard, with tables in the center and around the sides. There’s a tree in the middle of everything, but the feng shui isn’t right; Sandra and I both felt it. It might have helped to light up the tree, or something. Anyway, we placed an order with our disinterested waiter (the guide book said the food was good, but the service was “dodgy.”) The first dish after jicama wedges for starters was a quesadilla sampler, with some excellent sauces. It was so big, that we asked the waiter to hold one of the soups we’d ordered, and he did, bringing us only one of the watercress soup with corn dumplings. Again, really delicous, wihtout the bitterness one usually associates with watercress.

Then the story begins: we had ordered one more dish, Zandunga, which was a chicken with papaya sauce and other things. The busboy brought me a plate and set it down with a flourish, saying, “Pata Negra.” We didn’t know what to make of this, since it looked like a pile of prosciutto on top of jicama, nothing “negra” about it, and certainly not what we had ordered. We called the waiter over and he insisted that we had ordered it. So, now we had a dilemma; Sandra & I both hate to send things back, as the food usually just gets tossed (the waiter did offer us to change it). And we stil didn’t know what this was in front of me. Sandra was too full to eat anything more anyway, which meant I would have to eat the whole thing. And, while we were debating what to do, the two people behind us, who were Spanish-speaking and probably from Mexico City, got served two portions of what  looked  suspiciously like Zandunga. I was starting to think that this was a get the gringos kind of situation (the dish I had in front of me was the most expensive thing on the menu). So, Sandra went back to the waiter, and explained again that we had not even said the words Pata Negra and that we had ordered Zandunga. At that point, the waiter said, “Well, we’re all out of Zandunga.” Sandra came back to the table, and we had a good laugh at how crazy this was, and I ate the whole thiing and still don’t know what it was. It was pretty good, though.

After this experience, we strolled down the pedestrian Alcala (named Calle Macedonio (!) for reasons I have yet to determine) back to the zocalo to see if there was any music. Earlier in the day, we saw workers putting up a large stage and sound system. Sandra had asked a family what was going on, and the father said there was going to be cumbia tonight. Since she is a big cumbia fan, we wanted to catch this. Well, when we got to the square, there were a zillion people around, and a band was playing with a loud system and all kinds of lights and smoke. They actually were pretty horrible, unfortunately, with the kind of pop schmaltz that you apparently can’t get away from no matter where you go. A few numbers that almost got going. The announcer had that commercial voice which sounds very loud, is very fast, and emphasizes certain parts of words, rolls the r’s with exaggeration, etc. Classic.

Fortunately, there was a second band, on a second stage, and this was a Norteno band, Colvillo Norteno. There were excellent, tight, professional, good musicans, and knew how to work the crowd. They played one hit after another, which I determined by hearing most of the crowd singing along every verse of each song. Not a lot of dancing, but we had some fun. I tried to read up on them yesterday, but there’s not much that I could find. They were mentioned in a Wikipedia article on narcocorrido, but I don’t know how much to trust that source. All in all a fun evening.

Yesterday, after our morning routines, we had the goal of visiting more artesanos  making textiles. We went first to a women’s cooperativo, MARO (Mujeres Artisanes de la Regiones de Oaxaca). It was practically around the corner. Many rooms with all kinds of things, including some Day of the Dead stuff. Sandra’s mostly looing and assessing at this point. I don’t know that we’re even going to buy anything, since we pack very light on our trips (just carry-on). But there may be something we come across that she would like to have, more as a way of honoring the work than as a necessity, of course.

We then headed back toward the zocalo to try to find the covered artisan market. We stumbled first onto the chocolate street, which had shop after shop of chocolate beans, drinks, and bars. They were roasting the beans there, as well. I think we’ll take some of this home before we go, just for the souvenir. We did have chocolate in the morning at the cafe across the street, and it was frothy and delicious.

Anyway, after much wandering, we finally found the covered market. Inside were many stalls of textile work, and everyone wanted us to stop. It had the feeling of being attacked by piranhas, but you really can’t blame them. There’s so much of this stuff around, and most of the quality is similar, so you snag whom you can. There some younger, modern-looking folks selling, as well as some ancient women. Sandra said that the Tree of Life is a common motif in this area. She’s planning on doing more research on it. She has included one beautiful piece from a Navajo in New Mexico in her slide show, but nothing from this far south. I’m curious about it.

After escaping from the market, we headed back, first taking a look inside the covered food market. All kinds of stuff here. This reminded me of two things: Blade Runner, and my imagined Hong Kong. Many people, smoke, food smells, unidentifiable things to eat. There were three fellows set up playing marimba and guajiro. Sandra said that this is one of the traditional forms of music here. I’m guessing that somehow the marimba made it here from Africa via the slave trade, but I wonder if it might be an indigenous creation, also.

As we made our way on the outskirt of the zocalo, I got my first look at the famous chapulines, your local grasshopper. Piles, thousands of them in volcanic-shaped mounds on flat woven baskets. There were roasted and all reddish-brown. I don’t know much about this, but I hope to learn more about how this came to be a part of the diet here. You can order it on most menus as a seasonal dish. At the market, you could buy a bunch, or just have a dish of them with salsa right there. I don’t think I’m ready for this yet, though!

Coming into the main square we chanced upon a parade, with huge human figures and a little brass band. They were publicizing a two-week outdoor market north of our B&B in a small park of yet more textiles and crafts. We followed the parade, of course. Every so often, they would stop, and the band would play some tunes, while the big figures (housing small boys who moved them), would dance in place, and young girls in colorful costumes would swish their skirts from side to side. Older women would throw candy to the crowd. It was all pretty cute.

We ended up going to that market after our dinner (this time we had mole colorado; red, more subtle than the negro, still smoky and delicious), as it was pratically down the street from the restaurant we chose. Some really beautiful pieces, including a lovely vestido and some stunningly-colored small rugs, including one with a Tree of Life motif. We will go back today for a closer look.

Then, both of us studied Spanish for an hour or two. Sandra is, as usual, far beyond me, but I’m surprised how easy this is, especially compared to Greek. I haven’t formally taken Spanish since the 8th grade, except for an adult ed class for a few months in the early 80′s. I’m sure I could get by if I spent 6 solid months of doing nothing but studying and speaking. Given where our country is going, Spanish should be a mandated 2nd language for everyone, and kids should then start working on a third language of their choice.

We then went out looking for a place to eat. Not so easy on a Sunday afternoon, but we found a very nice place. We ordered cheese-stuffed fried squash blossoms. Delicious, of course, and reminded me of the kolokothikes tiganites we had in Ikaria. The other dish we had was our first mole in the city. A rich, dark sauce over chicken, subtle and flavorful. It sure is going to be a pleasure to eat here!

We spent the rest of the afternoon just walking around. We checked out the etnobotanical jardin, but it was mostly a playground for kids and a hangout for couples. The usual small stands all around, selling fired corn on the cob, or other things. We did see a few bookstores that looked interesting, but all were closed. We also saw several signs for homeopathic doctors and “medico cirujano”, the latter of which we haven’t figured out yet. Given the artistic openness of the town, and the large indigenous population with its own traditions, it is no surprise to have this open-mindedness regarding health and health care.

We thought about going to a dance performance, but were afraid it would just be a choreographed version of what really happens, so we’re hoping to see the real thing during one of the posadas here. There’s something happening everywhere, from parades, to fireworks, to pop concerts, to salsa clubs. We’re not up to speed yet, but I’m glad we’re taking the entire two weeks I have off from school to be here, instead of gallivanting around Mexico.

Late afternoon was a long nap for Sandra and me finishing my first book. I brought 5, all on my iPad, and just downloaded another one from the Seattle Pubic Library. It’s totally easy, and makes packing simpler and obviously less heavy. Plus I get to write this blog, do whatever e-mails I want to, etc. I know regular travelers are used to this, but it’s liberating, especially after my early days in my young 20′s, hauling all kinds of crap around. Money sure makes things easier here, too. Not that we’re spending a lot, by most standards, but neither of us could have afforded a place like this during the days we were bouncing around youth hostels. As Sandra says, the cucaracha days are over.

While walking around near the zocalo trying to find dinner, we stumbled across a museum named after Rufino Tamayo, one of the many well-known painters here. The building that houses the works is very open, and it was showing an annual exhibition, for free that night, so we went in. One of the young guides showed us the museum’s Dubuffet, and I commented on him reading Mein Kampf (Mi Lucha), which he was holding. He was saying that it seemed that the problem with Nazism was not so much the ideology but Hitler himself. I didn’t want to get into it…Anyway, a nice place, and there are many other museums to look into.

Still couldn’t find a dinner place. One of the ones recommended in the guide had upped and moved to Houston, of all places. We finally had to settle on a Spaghetteria and had a pizza, preceded by tortilla strips dipped in two Oaxacan sauces. I felt a bit disoriented. It’s similar to the langauge thing, where I  find myself answering questions in Greek, or making a monosyllabic reply in Macedonian. Imagine if I were an immigrant…

We had to hang in there while a guitarist hung out in the doorway belting out a few songs whcih to my ear sounded classic Tex-Mex instead of anything else (I still don’t know what the local music is like).  He hoped to make some money from the patrons, but no such luck. It reminded me of the guy who sang one rhumba near our table our first night out in Granada for our honeymoon. I don’t how these guys survive.  Along with TV commercials, it seems these situations are the same everywhere.

Our trip here was pretty uneventful. We spent a chunk of time in the San Francisco international terminal in between flights. I’d never been there before, and they did a really nice job with it, very spacious, with long views. Had a Japanese aesthetic to the design in some ways, and we both could have used more color in the environment, but perhaps we were anticipating Oaxaca. Food choices were slim, but I did get into a conversation with the owner of a Japanese takeout whose parents had owned and run a place in Millbrae which I had gone to when I was working for San Mateo county. We spent a little time trying to figure out how they got the pink swirl inside the naruto rolls.

The Oaxaca airport is small, and the ride into town was noisy and dusty. There was young man in front of us dressed in Gangsta, with the hat turned around, close haircut, tattoos, iPod playing rap, and sullen expression. But he reminded me of some of my kids, just a little older.

Our place, Casa de las Bugambilias, which Sandra researched, is lovely, with a very nice family running it. They are trying to support the arts and local growers, have an environmental awareness that we can relate to, and are friendly. I don’t know how much more or less we’d pay for a regular hotel, but I’d gladly give extra money to a place and family like this any day.

After a shower, we postponed a much-needed nap and had lunch right next door, at the restaurant owned by the same family. Sandra had a quesadilla with one kind of Oaxacan cheese and chicken flautas mixed in with some kind of bean tart. I had a quesilla, with cheese and peppers over cactus. All very yummy and off the usual path.

We were going to go look over the town, but decided to rest up and slept for 4 hours. I continued reading the Girl Who Kicked the Hornet’s Nest, which I’m enjoying. I read this whole trilogy while traveling.  Around 10 o’clock, we decided to go out and have dinner.

Paloma and Cass had given us the Oaxacan section of the Lonely Planet Guide to Mexico, and we found a little place recommended nearby. It was Doña Martha’s Tlayuda senaduria, like a converted garage). Outside on the street, they back the tlayudas directly on charcoal. People sit on benches or stand around watching, eating and talking. Cars and your typical big truck double park and wait for take out or just hang out.

We decided to go in and sit down and people watched, occasionally watching the boxing match on screen. The tlayuda is a local crepe-type food made from a large tortilla. The women coat the tortilla with sauce, then add bean paste and sprinkle cheese over that. The whole thing is folded over and then put directly on the charcoal, where it is cooked, turned every so often. You can add different kinds of meat (I added chorizo, and Sandra had some kind of thinly sliced beef), which are also cooked directly on the charcoal. So, there’s a flavor and an aroma that’s related to but different from your usual barbecue or grill food.

As in other countries in the Balkans we visited, everyone in the family sits together; there is no kid’s table here. The children are part of the conversation, regardless of their age, and it was nice to see everyone enjoying themselves. One of the grandmothers could have passed for Mongolian, in my view, and I expect to see a wide variety of faces based on the large native population here.

We took a walk after this larger-than-expected meal. Apparently, cars have the right of way here, so you have to watch yourself. The streets also slope abruptly down at the edges, and in the dark, walking here for the first time, I had a few near calls of tripping. The buildings look old, and most are 2 stories, with a few adding one more floor. I really prefer this to the large buildings of most modern cities. There is still hustle and bustle here, but it’s on a scale that feels manageable.

We missed some kind of outdoor performance in the zocalo, the city plaza, but there were street performers trying to drum up business with the remaining crowd; street performers are pretty much the same everywhere.

By this time it was after midnight, and there were a lot of young people out, going in and out of clubs. Music sounded familiar, and except for the surroundings, you’d be hard put to locate yourself.

This morning we had our first communal breakfast around a large table in the dining room. Everything homemade, including the jam. An elegant omelet filled with the dry, dense quesilla cheese, and topped with verde salsa and a flower. We spoke a little withthe other people there, but it wasn’t till afterward, on our way back to our room, that I noticed that one of the men was writing a thank-you note to the owners before leaving in a lovely calligraphic style. I immediately signaled Sandra, and we got into a conversation with him and his wife. He teaches calligraphy and typography at a university in Mexico City, and his wife is a psychologist who does development and training for human resource departments. We had a lot to talk about, and it’s a shame they are driving back to Mexico City today. Maybe we’ll host them in Seattle at some point. These are the kinds of encounters that we were hoping to make when we chose this place. So far everyone, even the customs officials, is very friendly.

I’ve had a great time with Slavko and Cynthia on this portion of the trip, but I will be fine with getting home. Zagreb does look in better shape than many of the other cities I’ve visited. It still has an older, aura, sort of Austro-Hungarian style, at least in the section we visited. I couldn’t recognize the Youth Hostel I stayed in so long ago when we drove past, and the train station’s bigger. But, maybe because of the time of year, things were slow, and everyone was probably at the coast.

I made my plane just fine, and the trip to the hotel from the Frankfurt airport went smoothly. My German is really horrible; with the exception of English, I think I speak all these other languages like a 2-year old, if that. And everyone in these cities speaks English; it’s practically a crime.

My final breakfast was an uneventful but delicious buffet, while I watched TV and a news report about people getting massacred in Pittsburgh. No problems getting to the plane or on the plane for the very long trip back.

In Toronto, US customs made me unpack my bag completely. The woman was actually nice, and was amazed at how few clothes I had. She seemed perplexed by my interest in folk music and dance. I had to go through security twice, but finally made it through.

Safe landing in Seattle, bus ride back to Symphony Hall, where the lovely Sandra picked me up. And so, another adventure ends. If you’ve read this far, I hope some of it was at least entertaining and thought-provoking. For me, I do this to go back and remember details I might have forgotten. OK, till the next trip, then…in the mean time, today’s my birthday, and we’re going to the Dahlia Lounge to celebrate!