A Day in the Life of Oaxaca - Part I

It is Saturday. Our only plan is to head to the Church of Santo Domingo de Guzman and adjoining museum and botanical garden, which are an easy walk past the Zocalo. The kids are not excited about this idea, but they consent to come along because I have promised to look for dowels which can be used as arrows for the bows they bought at the market yesterday. With the modest objectives of getting to the museum and craft store, we leave our house with the walled garden on foot at about 10 am.

It is about a 20 minute walk downtown with the kids. On the way we peek into shops, look for Volkswagen Bugs (Jasper is doing a photo essay of these ubiquitous “bolchos”), and greet most people with “hola” or “Buenos Dias.” The kids often get hungry on the way, so we stop for a juice or bag of chips to hold us over. As we approach the Center the sidewalks begin to fill and the traffic picks up in the street. There are more hotels, restaurants and “artesanias” for tourists. We feel like we are moving towards something fun.

At some point I happen to look up and notice that we are outside the Museum of Textiles, which I have heard is wonderful but have never seen. It is an inviting and beautifully renovated, large, airy building with exquisite weavings hanging on the walls and an open courtyard with several women demonstrating the art. We spend a few sublime moments drifting through the quiet galleries before the kids become antsy and begin playing hide and seek behind the tapestries. I remember that a friend of a friend has recommended the San Pablo Cultural Center, which she described as being right next door. We walk 30 meters down the block to another elegant, more modern building in which there is a touring Calder exhibit for children. “El Circo (circus) de Calder.” We spend nearly two hours playing with wire and balance, making tiny people out of corks and paperclips to play on tiny circus equipment, and watching videos of Calder working (playing!) with his little wire inventions. When Jasper and Josie refuse to leave, Peter and I sit in the café in the courtyard and drink mochas with Oaxacan chocolate.

When the kids finally agree to leave (after securing the promise that we will return next week), it is after 12:00 and time for lunch. Instead of heading uphill for Santo Domingo, we turn left towards the markets. There are two large covered markets downtown: Benito Juarez and 20 Noviembre. The first has acres of artisans selling their wares, the second specializes in all kinds of food. We are in search of food, so we walk briskly through Benito Juarez, past rows and rows of people selling bags, cloth, curtains, shoes, belts, toys, DVDs, jewelry, shirts, dresses, pants, pillows, and anything else you can imagine.

Then comes the food. Handmade cheeses, fish, tortillas, tamales, chapulines (toasted crickets), mole of every color (mole negro, colorado, amarillo, verde, chichilo, coloradito, and mancha manteles), pastries, nieves (colorful, flavored ice)… and meat. We turn down the meat aisle into a room filled with smoke and noise. Two long lines of grills give off intense heat and aroma as attendants call to each potential diner, promising them a good price and great cut. Deep red strips of steak, richly spiced sausages and tender strips of pork lay out in front of each grill, raw and waiting to be selected for lunch. Every stand seems identical, but the throng of shoppers bustling up and down the aisle with baskets in hand are scrupulously inspecting the meat before pointing out the one of their choice to be grilled before their eyes. One stand actually has booths and we collapse into the first seat we see. We agree to purchase a kilo of meat for 120 pesos, having no idea what that will entail. The waiter soon brings us a sizeable platter of grilled meat, several hand made tortillas, and little platters of pico de gallo, cucumbers, onions and guacamole. The meat is tender, not too spicy but flavorful. It is fantastic. We savor every morsel, crossing our fingers we will not regret taking such liberties with “street food.”

After lunch the kids and I head home for our siesta and Peter walks up to Santo Domingo to actually see the museum we had intended to visit. Jasper and Josie spend a blissful hour crafting arrows out of the dowels we had managed to find at a craft store on the way home, while Peter learns about all the cultures and history of Oaxaca and enjoys a few unique hours on his own.

By early evening it is time to head downtown again. It is the week of Guelaguetza, a massive cultural festival that draws dancers, musicians, and tourists from all corners of Oaxaca (and people from all over the world). Peter has found a free outdoor marimba concert and saved us seats, so we hop into a cab only to go six blocks before realizing it will be quicker to walk. The streets are clogged with traffic. We get out and walk towards the Zocalo and beyond Santo Domingo, through sidewalks that are teeming with people. Many are in traditional dresses (some performers, many not), others are dressed up for various events (many to do with the festival, some not), the rest are obviously tourists and revelers, here to appreciate all that Oaxaca has to offer.

We find Peter in the front row of a concert that has just begun. Ten children, ages 12 to 18, are expertly manipulating the mallets on two exquisite marimbas. They are the regional prodigies, winners of a national scholarship to study the marimba in order to preserve the art form, They play through several traditional songs, and with each new piece the audience gasps in recognition and delight. Some of these songs we have already come to recognize after only a week here. Jasper and Josie are rapt for only a song or two and then squirm out of their seats to go practice shooting their toy arrows against the church.

After several songs we pull ourselves away to tend to the kids, walking towards a street a block away that seems to be hosting a parade. Standing on our toes with the children on our shoulders we watch as a dozen or more delegations from towns and ethnic groups all over the state dance down the road, accompanied by large marching bands, gigantic puppets, stilt walkers, fireworks. The costumes are all bright, colorful and replete with flowers, and food fabric, but they are each unique to the region, as are the dances. It is well past dinner time at this point and we know we should be feeding the kids, but it is difficult to pull ourselves away.

Finally, hunger dictates and we move back down to the Zocalo in search of dinner. It is difficult to move through the park past the endless sea of bodies, but we manage to find a table at an affordable restaurant right on the square. We settle in to drink, eat and watch as more dancers, more musicians, more performers of all kinds drift past. Women and children approach the table again and again, selling scarves, necklaces, candy, toys. It is nearly 10 pm when we finish our meal of tlayudas and decide to call it a night. But not before picking up ice cream at one of the three “Michuacana” ice cream shops on the square. The Zocalo is still crowded, with no signs of slowing.

At home we collapse into bed, exhausted, dirty, sticky with the remnants of so many treats, our heads buzzing with the noise from the day. And we wonder if every day could be like this in Oaxaca.