What can I say about travel…hmm…with 14 bags between us (counting all our carry ons) it was fun, adventurous, and I felt like a mule…We were able to get our luggage checked all the way to Oaxaca, so we went through customs there. We assumed that would be easy, but alas, as fate would have it, our family was randomly chosen by the airport officials for a more thorough inspection. They opened and sifted through all 14 bags, including the guitar and violin case. Lucky for us, they didn’t find the marijuana or the diamonds! (Homeland security…that was a joke, by the way.)
And…I have to say something about the long flight from Denver to La Ciudad de Mexico. I enjoyed the privilege of a bulkhead seat (by myself). Jason and the kids were 10 rows behind me. I thought my flight would be a great opportunity to catch up on reading and sleep, but it was not meant to be. I sat by a young mother with a lively 14 month old boy and a 4-year-old girl. Very sweet people, but that little boy, who was supposed to be on her lap for the whole flight, never stopped moving and cried anytime his mother forced him into a sitting position.
But, I had fun interacting with them and helped her whenever I could, remembering a time when I used to fly with two kids under four…Anyway, this mother was Mexican, but an Orthodox Jew, living in a mainly Sephardic Jewish community in Mexico City. Most of her synagogue had grandparents who immigrated to Mexico after WWI, primarily from Syria, but also other Arabic/Muslim countries. Her husband, who was sitting in the back of the plane, came to relieve her toward the end of the flight. We had an enjoyable discussion about the Torah, which he studies one hour every morning and two hours each evening after work. He didn’t have those curly-cue sideburns, which I asked him about and he said…oh…those Jews are from Europe. They’re Ashkenazi. After listening to Michael Chabon’s new novel this summer, I found myself once again, amazed at the resilience of the Jewish people.
But, I had fun interacting with them and helped her whenever I could, remembering a time when I used to fly with two kids under four…Anyway, this mother was Mexican, but an Orthodox Jew, living in a mainly Sephardic Jewish community in Mexico City. Most of her synagogue had grandparents who immigrated to Mexico after WWI, primarily from Syria, but also other Arabic/Muslim countries. Her husband, who was sitting in the back of the plane, came to relieve her toward the end of the flight. We had an enjoyable discussion about the Torah, which he studies one hour every morning and two hours each evening after work. He didn’t have those curly-cue sideburns, which I asked him about and he said…oh…those Jews are from Europe. They’re Ashkenazi. After listening to Michael Chabon’s new novel this summer, I found myself once again, amazed at the resilience of the Jewish people.
So, no sleep and very little reading, but an interesting flight. Oh…did I tell you that Gabe expressed feeling homesick as soon as we stepped foot on Mexican soil. Today was better for him, but I did feel for the poor kid, travel can be so disorienting and his parents don’t tend to tolerate complaining.
So, that brings me to day one. For you, my friends, who have spent precious time in pueblos around Merida, or in any developing world country, you will remember the morning music that plays before or at dawn. First, you have Mr. Rooster next door, the one with the penchant for starting his crow at 4 AM. When I was growing up, they always said these animals crowed at sun-up. Bull-s—t. Well, not completely bull shit…they do crow at dawn, but they also start crowing before dawn and end that final crow sometime around the moment when one of us throws our shoe out the window at the testosterone-filled maniac. Yes…we know about roosters. They don’t just crow once. That’s the other myth you learn as a child. Roosters are the snooze buttons of the wild…reminding you that you need to wake up about, oh…every ten minutes or so.
So, that brings me to day one. For you, my friends, who have spent precious time in pueblos around Merida, or in any developing world country, you will remember the morning music that plays before or at dawn. First, you have Mr. Rooster next door, the one with the penchant for starting his crow at 4 AM. When I was growing up, they always said these animals crowed at sun-up. Bull-s—t. Well, not completely bull shit…they do crow at dawn, but they also start crowing before dawn and end that final crow sometime around the moment when one of us throws our shoe out the window at the testosterone-filled maniac. Yes…we know about roosters. They don’t just crow once. That’s the other myth you learn as a child. Roosters are the snooze buttons of the wild…reminding you that you need to wake up about, oh…every ten minutes or so.
Next, we have dog-barking. The dog-barking usually comes a bit later than the rooster crows…takes doggie a bit of time to stretch and wake up…but when he does, barks ring throughout the neighborhood. Our neighbors dog is a St. Bernard. We tried to make friends with him, but he really is a watch dog, tied up to a tree, with flies and mosquitoes pecking at him all day long. (I’m sure that doesn’t improve his disposition). As far as barks go, his woofs are a pleasant and deep baritone. I’m thankful the dog outside our window is not a yapper.
Lastly, by around 6:30 am, the morning music changes genres…street vendors come around, offering their various services. Of course, since no one is yet awake, except the rooster and the dog, the vendor must yell, proclaim his product to high-heaven, hoping the occupants asleep inside will open their door and buy, buy, buy. Let’s see…who are these folks? We have the garbage man, the man who fills your propane tank, the man with the diesel truck(with loud horn, not afraid to use it) who fills your cistern, the tortilla guy, and so on and so on.
Let’s just say that sleeping off Ashby Avenue, as we have done for so many years now, is a garden of silence in comparison.
Let’s just say that sleeping off Ashby Avenue, as we have done for so many years now, is a garden of silence in comparison.
We enjoyed a wonderful day after waking. Our host’s wife, Pilar and her driver took us all over Oaxaca to run errands. We visited the school and registered the kids. We received a list of supplies and bought them, got cell phones, met the butcher, the baker and (not the candlestick maker) but the cheese vendors (Oaxaca sells two very special kinds of cheese, one like string cheese, the other a crumbly creamy cheese). We brought our children to a photographer to have photos taken for their school ids…the old man wielding the camera told them not to smile. It made us laugh.
We ran into street children selling goods for their parents, two of whom Pilar had a lengthy discussion with, told me how to spot anemia and malnutrition in them…though it wasn’t difficult to see. One little girl, who was the same age as Abby, was more than a foot shorter than she. We bought gum from them and found out their names, discovered the fact that they attend school, at least. Pilar told them to study hard…to study and avoid having a novio (boyfriend) until age 20. Pilar and Saul, her husband, have helped kids like these their whole adult lives. Danny, a young man who is staying in the house with us just now, was a street urchin, an orphan, whom they adopted. He’s one of many success stories.
So, many wonderful and inspiring sights. The main square is absolutely beautiful and charming. Unlike Merida, there is no traffic around the square…those streets are closed off to all motorized vehicles. It’s amazing how much this improves atmosphere. No noise and no pollution, only Cafes, music, novios cuddling, Western tourists with their backpacks and children at play. The zocalo (that’s what they call the main square) is all that the travel books say it is.
For my final tribute to Oaxaca, I have to say something about the weather. Again, it’s difficult not to compare this place to Merida. In the case of weather, they are not polar opposites in terms of temperature, but they are in terms of comfort. I noticed it when I stepped off the plane at OAX and felt the cool air, the fresh mountain wind and the absence of extreme humidity. It’s unusual to break a sweat here, whereas in Merida, the only time you aren’t sweating is in the shower. This is what I hear from all who have spent time in Oaxaca…the weather is perfect, or as near perfect as a place can get.
For my final tribute to Oaxaca, I have to say something about the weather. Again, it’s difficult not to compare this place to Merida. In the case of weather, they are not polar opposites in terms of temperature, but they are in terms of comfort. I noticed it when I stepped off the plane at OAX and felt the cool air, the fresh mountain wind and the absence of extreme humidity. It’s unusual to break a sweat here, whereas in Merida, the only time you aren’t sweating is in the shower. This is what I hear from all who have spent time in Oaxaca…the weather is perfect, or as near perfect as a place can get.
This concludes my first impressions of Oaxaca. More to come and hopefully we’ll figure out our internet situation soon, so I can write and receive emails from many of you.
No comments:
Post a Comment