Que le Vaya Bien

As soon as we arrive in DC later today we will be back to the race that is our life. Tomorrow we begin the moving process as we attempt to install ourselves into a new house. I go back to work on Monday. The kids return to school the week after that. Then it will be one long string of steps in our routine: lunches, school, work, PTO, baseball, gymnastics, etc. Peppered with great meals, good friends, time with family, small adventures close to home, of course. But there will be nothing to compare to this summer we spent in Mexico, for a long time to come.

Before we left Oaxaca we sat down with the kids and watched a slide show of our first six weeks in Mexico. We talked through each place and experience, trying to stitch them into memory. It is hard to believe that the days we spent sweltering in Merida were just over a month ago. We have packed so much into this summer, it seems to have expanded into ten. Our challenge will be to remember it. We have to accept that much of this time will be lost. Even last night Josie said to Jasper, “Remember the pizza we had at the top of the hill, with the pool?” He had no idea what she was talking about. That wonderful dinner, with the hippie Italians, of wine and pasta and pizza, while the kids swam in the infinity pool and the sun set over the Pacific, at Mazunte. That pizza place. “Oh yeah!” he said, unconvincingly.

Remember that summer in Mexico? Oh yeah, THAT summer in Mexico. That rich, full, fascinating, fun summer in Mexico. When Jasper was eight, and Josie was five, and their parents remembered why they were married ten years ago.

Que le vaya bien, Mexico.

And, si Dios Quiere…

Hasta luego.

Puebla

We are on our way home. After a stunning if not stressful drive over the mountains from Puebla, we miraculously found the Alamo Rental Car lot (after being stopped only once by an officer who falsely claimed I ran a red light and threatened to take my license), and had a smooth transition to our hotel by the airport. Over a late dinner of hot chocolate and salad last night, Jasper said earnestly, “This is like staying at the Ritz.” Our last three days in Mexico have served as an appropriate finale to a most remarkable summer.

We left Oaxaca on Saturday after saying goodbye to this delightful city and promising to return. It was a long drive through cactus forests and over mountains thick with pine, and we arrived in Puebla only at sunset. We were there to visit the family of Joel, the husband of my dear friend Denia. Joel left Puebla when we was 14, and has not returned in these 16 years. Two of his brothers have since come to the US and returned, but we are the first friends to visit. We arrived under strict order to spend at least three days and let his family take care of us.

After getting lost and several confused phone conversations, Joel’s oldest brother, Candido, found us at a Pemex station in downtown Puebla. He would escort us to his taqueria for dinner and this to his house to stay. Joel’s family (all eight brothers and sisters, his parents, and his 27 nieces and nephews) live in Tlaxcala, a suburb of Puebla, which would be difficult to find on our own. So we followed Candido, along with his brother, Carlos, and his son in law, Israel, in their VW Jetta back towards the highway. After some difficulty finding the right road out of town, Candido’s car stopped dead on the highway in the middle of a bridge. Peter jumped out and helped the brother and son-in-law push for the next 30 minutes, in heavy traffic, over the bridge, past the exit, on to the main artery to Mexico City and to the closest gas station. Our adventure in Puebla had begun.

We spent the next two days being completely pampered by Joel’s large family. We ate at Candido’s taqueria, of which he is extensively proud, and his brother’s taqueria, and his parents’ taqueria. They are all called Tacos de Guero (which means White Guy’s Tacos, more or less), because the family has lighter skin and has long been referred to as “gueros” in their neighborhood. The entire family participates in the business, an operation which demands their attention from 8 o’clock in the morning when they go to the market to purchase meat, vegetables, spices, sodas, until 1 am when they close up the shop. We spent many hours hanging out and watching everyone help out, from the ten year old grandchild to the 60 year old grandfather. Jasper was particularly impressed. Josie impressed us all by devouring a tongue taco. We ate so many tacos in those two days that Jasper, who never talks in his sleep, blurted out in the middle of the night, “Tacos.” We all dreamed of tacos.

In addition to eating a lot of tacos, we spent a lot of time hanging out. Candido has built a large and growing modest cinderblock house for his family, which currently houses him and his wife, three of their children, two son-in-laws, two brothers and their wives and children, and his parents. They gave us an entire room with two double beds for our convenience and comfort. It was amazing for me to watch Jasper and Josie immediately relax and make themselves at home. Candido’s thirteen year old daughter, Yessenia, was fast friends with Josie. Jasper immediately fell into playing with Yovani, who is ten years old and whose father spent the first seven years of his life in the States. The kids were happy to watch one of the three TVs that were constantly on, or play with the many toys in the house. They could have spent three happy days in the confines of those cinderblock walls.

But we also saw many of the sights of Puebla and vicinity, of which there are many. Everywhere we went we traveled with an entourage of siblings, nieces and nephews. We piled six people into a car, abandoning seat bets for laps. Candido said Joel told him to take us as close as possible to the volcano, Popo, which has been particularly active recently. After the assurance that it was 40 minutes away, we drove for an hour and a half across the valley and then up and up the flanks of the volcano, finally arriving at a small town that is known most for the delicious trout that are farmed there in the fast, cold waters of the snowmelt from the volcano. We toured the fishery and rode horses and felt humbled by the volcano. We also went to see the cathedral in Puebla, the center of Tlaxcala, and the many churches and ruins of Cholula. I was tickled to see Candido yawning in the car beside me yesterday afternoon. Apparently taking care of a bunch of gueros is more tiring than running a restaurant.

Peter took off on Sunday for his final week of field work up in Chihuahua. On Tuesday we finally bid our goodbyes, after a meal of homemade mole on their roof top, amid many tears of appreciation for the time together, and more promises of return, four hours later than planned, and started our journey to Mexico City and home. We pulled into our hotel late, hungry (for something other than tacos) and exhausted, so glad to have spent time in Puebla, and so happy to be heading home. 

Un Dia en la Vida de Oaxaca: Segundo Parte

Today is Sunday. It is Peter’s last free day in Oaxaca, so we intend to make the most of it. We start by sleeping in, waiting until the sky outside is fully light and quiet has returned to the garden after the din of daybreak brought by the feasting (and fighting) parrots. There is no rush on a Sunday like this. We have learned to have confidence that whenever we get there, good things will happen. In Mexico.

After a breakfast of pastries from the bodega on the corner (that are miraculously warm and crisp), eggs and coffee we send the kids off to play in the garden. There are two other American families staying in this complex. One of them has three boys between the ages of five and 10, and the other has a nine year old boy from Richmond, Virginia. As soon as they have eaten, Jasper and Josie disappear into endless games of super heroes and experiments with fire and fruit. Over another cup of coffee we thumb through the guidebooks and pick out a few most-recommended excursions. There are more than we could accomplish in a day, or even a week, but in the end we decide on: biggest tree in the Americas, best Sunday market in the region, most fun ruins to play in, and best Mezcal tasting road. By the time we get our things together we have about 10 hours until sunset. We can do this.

The family from Richmond (an Anthropology professor at VCU and his wife and nine year old child) have been to the ruins before and would like to return, so we make a plan to meet up with them at a good market along the way in a few hours. We pile into the rental car and set off on the road to Mitla. We have hardly left Oaxaca when we see the sign for Tule. A short drive down an access road and we come to what feels like a dead end at a parking lot so we park and get out of the car, leaving all water and food since we are here to see the largest tree in this hemisphere. How long can it take to see a tree?

The town is quiet with clean manicured lawns and gardens. There are many artisan items for sale, indicating a strong tourist economy. It is not difficult to find the main attraction. To the left of the main square and next to the cathedral we can see an expansive canopy towering just above the two story buildings in between. As we round the corner and approach the Arbol de Tule we understand immediately why people are drawn to come here. It is massive beyond imagination. Far shorter than the towering redwoods (no taller than the cathedral beside it), it is the girth that impresses. Over 1,000 meters in diameter, the tree could fill the footprint of a small city block.

We pay the ten peso entry fee and spend over an hour basking in the serenity of this colossal organism. There are forms and images in the burls and crags of the trunk and limbs, which a team of ten year old girls in official green shirts describe in loud voices using mirrors to indicate each feature. There is the face of an Indian, the reclining body of Christ, a deer’s head, a bird… We take pictures, gawk, snack on grapefruit and pomegranate from a roadside vendor, chat with other tourists. “Why aren’t there more trees like this?” Peter asks. While I wonder, “How is this one here?” Why was it not taken like the others? We are humbled by its existence and only leave once the kids remind us it is time for lunch.

After a snack of quesadillas and sodas we get back into the car and head a short ways up the same road towards Mitla, pulling off at the town of Tlacolula where we have been told the Sunday market is vast and fun. We weave through tiny side streets, following our noses and asking for directions, until we find a parking place near what feels like the town center.

It is hard to imagine how this market could be much different or better than the market in Oaxaca, which was intense. But as we approach the main streets, which have been shut down to traffic for the vendors, we immediately understand. There is a friendlier, small town tone that is bustling and welcoming. We do not find our friends at the church, but after another meal of taquitos and pulque we run into them magically among the throngs of people. We take another hour to shop and wander through the food market, taking in the sights and smells of raw meats, fruits, fresh bread, hot oil, smoke and chilis. The kids impress me by sampling all sorts of delicacies, from pigskin to tacate (a chocolate drink), encouraged by the older and more gastronomically adventurous nine year old. It is after three o’clock when we decide we should head to the next item on our list: the ruins of Yogul.

Yogul is a smaller ruin a bit off the beaten path, nestled into a high desert ridge near a string of caves where the oldest evidence cultivated squash (10,000 years old) was found. It was a smaller town, perhaps some sort of annex to Monte Alban. There are no large pyramids or monuments, but the site hosts a handful of restored dwellings, cave like crypts, mysterious ritual areas and a ball court. The most attractive feature is a network of stone walls that create a veritable maze, ideal for games of hide and seek and scrambling. There are no guides or guards to enforce rules (it was not apparent that there were any rules at all), so the kids are free to run and scramble over the ruins like their own private playground. It is late in the day, so we have the ruins more or less to ourselves. We take the time to hike up to the ridge, and are rewarded at the top with a spectacular view of the  ruins below, as well as the expansive corn fields and surrounding mountains. We descend and depart only once we are summoned by the piercing whistle of the only attendant on the property. It takes me a while to find Jasper (who has run off with his father and friend to explore a tomb on the far edge of the property), so we are locked into the parking lot. The attendant willingly lets us out, and we are free to move towards our final objective: Mezcal tasting.

The road to Mitla is riddled with artisan Mezcalerias. These are small Mezcal plantations that produce small batches of this alcoholic drink (from fermented cactus) using traditional methods. Most operations offer a brief tour with the tasting, and it feels like the Napa Valley of Oaxaca. We are eventually headed to the town of Mitla for dinner, but decide to make a quick stop at a roadside Mezcaleria that seems to be ready for tourists. We are not disappointed by the private tour and detailed description of each step of the Mezcal process: harvesting the cactus, roasting it on coals for six days, grinding it in a horse powered mill, fermenting, distilling, and, of course, drinking. In Mezcal, Peter seems to have found his new “palm wine”; he is thoroughly enamored. To me the drink tastes and burns much like tequila, only with more subtle flavors and a smoother buzz. I quickly become the designated driver, and we soon leave for Mitla, but not after buying a few bottles for the road.

In Mitla the sun is setting and the town is quiet, almost deserted, as the shops close down for the night. We peek at the ruins, which are next to the town center. There is more shopping, feasting on tlayudas (a large flat, crispy tortilla smothered in mole and cheese), and Mezcal tasting before we call it a night. We drive home in the dark along the single highway, straight west, back to Oaxaca, rapidly retracing our steps from the day. Traffic thickens as we approach the city which  is wide awake with the sounds of Guelaguetza: fireworks, marching bands, marimbas, horns, voices. But we are too tired to go out again tonight. And we don’t need to. Because in Oaxaca there is always tomorrow.