Thoughts on Oaxaca

On Monday Sara/Sally and I walked down to the Zocolo for a last cup of that delicious hot chocolate with cinnamon. There are stores that sell cocoa beans fresh or roasted and fresh warm fudge and mole sauce, which is a mix of several chilies with chocolate. It would be interesting to see how they grow and harvest them.

Since the Post Office is in the town square I finally took along the post cards I had written. The inside of the PO wasn't spectacular but just outside one large door was a great scene. Out on the street was a group of women teachers sitting on leather couches [that might have been from some hotel lobby] knitting and talking-their idea of protesting. Another group of protesters were sitting in a small group doing beautiful embroidery work. One was sitting on a stack of egg crates.

The grafitti is a problem as nightly the punks and hoodlums leave their scribbles all over beautiful buildings and next day city workers whitewash it, then that same night it becomes a palate for more political protests - Ulysses afuera!! They want the governor 'OUT'. The city is unbelievably quiet with no police sirens and almost no traffic after eleven or midnight on a weekend, but for the occasional screeching tires after a firecracker explodes.

So because CNN and Pres. Bush have declared Oaxaca a dangerous place there are literally no tourists save for an occasional person who likely lives there like Sally. The very few white folks I saw looked pitted in and comfortable, not camera totting gawking squawking...well, you know what comes next. It was so very weird and wonderful to see these great Mexican cities of Oaxaca and Toluca going about their daily business. Many buildings are getting new paint jobs as a result of the grafitti. Unfortunately, many folks rely on tourism for a living and so they set out their beautiful embroidered shirts and dresses and perhaps don't make one sale all day, but they all still smile as they look up from their needlework and none of them are pushy though hopeful that this rare gringa will buy something.

At dinner Monday evening Armando told Sara that I was not a gringa, but a Canadian. Only Americans are gringos, he says, so that was nice to hear as it is not an endearment. Tuesday morning Xochitl was up at 6:30 to hug me goodbye but went back to bed [at 26 she needs her rest]. On the way to the airport Armando had to sneek around a fire burning in the middle of the street, otherwise the traffic was light and though I was sad to say goodbye to Armando and Sara it was good to get moving towards home.