The Great Hostel Hunt 2, la Vengaza del Indio

The tiendita across from El Tanguyuu sold beer in six packs and giant cholo-sized bottles. No singles, no little airplane liquors, just large quantities of beer. So I bought a 40oz of Indio and shuffled my ass back to my overnight hovel. Three nice things I can say about the place: 1. the lights worked, 2. strong wifi signal, 3. the bed seemed maybe kind of clean. 

I sipped on my beer, opened my laptop and watched a Canadian comedy series about life in a trailer park until I was sufficiently buzzed enough to close my eyes and sleep. Couldn't have been more than ten minutes into my slumber and I hear a tap-tap-tapping in the ceiling directly above my head. Tap-tap-tap, like the sound a little Mexican hobbit would make using his little hobbit hands to knock little hobbit nails into my half-drunk dreams. I must be dreaming. Tap-tap-tap, like the sound a large Mexican rodent would make with its gnarly rodent claws as it chips its way through the roof and onto my half-drunk head. No longer dreaming.

Ok, I didn't see an actual rodent but I did relaunch the laptop and scootch myself to the corner of the bed farthest from where I guessed the chupacabra might land if it ever did make it's way through the plaster. I don't know how many episodes of Nova Scotia Living I got through before the tapping stopped and I finally fell into some version of sleep. A few hours later the alarm went off. Normally alarms are the bane of a sane person's existence, but in this case it was my beacon of hope. I would shove my sanitation/hygiene supplies back into my suitcase - no need to get dressed because I never undressed - give the desk guy a piece of my mind and shove off. 

As it happened there was no guy at the desk. There was no anyone at the desk. Maybe the Mexican hobbit rodent was angry that it was also given filthy quarters so it gobbled the desk guy up in the middle of the night. Serves him right. But who cares, I had a clean room and sleep waiting for me six blocks away. Off I went. 

When I arrived at the Hotel Real Sto Domingo the nice young lady from the day before wasn't there. I rolled my bags across the courtyard and found a different young gal pulling a chicken carcass apart in the small, open kitchen under the stairs. She smiled and agreed to show me to my room on the second floor. In my bloodshot haze I thanked her, told her I was desperate for sleep and then hugged her before she could shut me in. 

My head hadn't even hit the pillow before the ear-shattering sounds of a Sunday morning mariachi marathon pierced my ears. I understand a young gal tasked with pulling poultry apart needs musical accompaniment. Musical accompaniment that faces an open air courtyard, perfect for achieving acoustical feats of wonder with the accordion and brass and yodeling being shoved through a tin box radio no doubt left over from the Mexican Revolution. Moments later the scream-crying of a toddler strapped to a stroller in the kitchen kicked in. Probably the child was also startled awake by the sounds of early-morning oom-pah-pah. At some point more family members arrived and discussions were had in the form of shouting across the courtyard. The toddler just kept crying. I literally felt her pain. 

Even the squishy, level-10 earplugs I'd shoved into my head couldn't begin to fend off the cacophony of level-12 noise produced by the combination of music, child cries, yelling, rooster crows and honking traffic horns. It was no use. I would have better luck sleeping on the steps of the Sto. Domingo church three blocks away. I told you Mexicans are loud. And for those of you who think I'm exaggerating for effect, you can just shut your moustache because this is no joke. Any of my family members reading this, feel free to chime right the hell in - tell me I didn't just describe every goshdang weekend morning at mom's house! Can I get a witness?!?! Amen.

Stay tuned for the final chapter of The Great Hostel Hunt.

Look for the 'H'

Dia de Gracias

To all my friends up north, Happy Thanksgiving!

It's my favorite holiday - no stress about gifts, no religious hooey or patriotic posturing, just good food and company. This is my first Thanksgiving away from my friends and family and I do miss them, yes, but even from way down here I'm feeling incredibly grateful for all that I am blessed with in life. What an amazing fortune that I have the health and a wealth of resources to be sitting thousands of miles away from my loved ones, on my fancy computing machine, contemplating all that is good in my world.

Don't eat too much, tell your people that you love them and enjoy your day!

The turkeys of the Mercado de Tlacolula are certainly grateful to be here and not there today.

The Great Hostel Hunt

Last weekend I moved out of my suburban oasis at Leti y Manuel's house and moved myself into a hostel near the Zocalo.

When I think hostel I think of 10-bunk rooms filled with backpacking youngsters tumbling in wasted at 3am. Hence I'd never, until now, considered hosteling an option - not even when I was a wasted backpacking youngster. Recently it was explained to me that not all hostels are created equal and given my budget, length of stay, etc., I should really reconsider. Fine.

I picked El Tanguyuu on a tip from the nice man who runs the language school, but also out of desperation because it was getting down to the wire and the nightly fee was super cheap. Super cheap should have been the burning red flag to stay away. When I showed up with my bags on Saturday morning the old guy behind the cluttered desk took me to my "estudio" suite. After a few seconds of adjusting my eyes to the darkness in the room I took notice of several indications that the little studio was likely still occupied: folded clothes on the foldout cot in the middle of the room, a dirty towel hanging near the bathroom sink and half a pot of cold coffee in the Mr. Cafe machine on the kitchen counter.

Señor! I cried out from the doorway. Are you sure this room isn't occupied? -Yes, they left last night. -Is the cleaning person coming today? -No, she comes on Mondays -But the room is dirty. -It is? Where. -Look, there's trash on the floor! -I'll bring you a broom.

I stood there, stunned and not at all hesitant to sweep it myself. After all, if something needs doing... good lord, what had I gotten myself into. I wasn't sure I would make it through the night let alone two weeks. No way. So I quickly swept and headed out onto the street in pursuit of a better situation.

About four stops into my search I encountered the Hotel Real Sto Domingo about six blocks up from the shit-show I'd landed at earlier in the day. When I arrived there was a cascade of hot water falling from the second floor down onto the red tile in the courtyard. A nice young woman rolled into the lobby from around the corner, a little surprised to see me standing there, and apologized profusely -you see, we're just in the middle of cleaning all the floors. SOLD! She told me she'd give me a very generous discount for the long stay and that I could move in as early as 8am the next morning if I left a cash deposit for the first night. SOLD!

Ok, I would only have to survive one night in the house of horrors. I'll just unpack my toothbrush and my babywipes and my alcohol swabs and my bug spray. If I buy a large container of beer, any beer, I'll probably pass out, get little bit of sleep before my early-morning move.

Stay tuned for part dos...

Sabor a Mi

Graffiti Oaxaqueña

Some travel blogger I am. In case you're wondering why I'm not posting more entries, I've been at a loss for words ... quite literally. I've gotten to the point in my immersion where I'm often forgetting words in English but haven't yet replaced them in Spanish. So here I am, inarticulate in two languages. 

Also, learning a language uses up a lot of hard drive space. And for reasons that are simply too boring to detail, I've been chronically under-slept since the day I got here so just about everything is burning up too many of my few remaining brain cells. I'm thinking about posting mostly photos with captions from here on out because that's about as much as I can be bothered to blog. Yes, I am the portrait of the lazy Mexican. That's me, asleep under a cactus with my sarape, sombrero gigante and empty bottle of mezcal. Metaphorically speaking, of course. 

The last thing I'll say for now is that I'm not the least bit homesick. It was kind of hard for me to tell my spouse this, but I think she understands. As much I've accepted and even kind of relished my status as an 'other' in the U.S., there's a tremendous sense of relief that comes with blending in. I'm not moving through this streets of Oaxaca presenting as the nanny, the maid, the illiterate or the illegal because I'm simply not presenting at all. I'm on no one's radar, just a regular Jose like any other local. Twice I've been asked for directions, by Mexicans, while walking down the street. Twice! And for probably the first time in my life I've been told that I'm mellow or "tranquila," comparatively speaking. You know, Mexicans are hella dramatic and loud. Maybe not as loud as Arabs or black people, but louder than say, Japanese people or the white North American privileged class. It's really nice to not worry about whether I might be offending someone's sensibilities with my aggressive Mexican-ness. Turns out I'm neither reserved nor pugnacious. Turns out I'm just me.

Bienvenidos a la Casa

Non-ironic Mexican home decor

As part of my plan I'd arranged a family homestay for the first few weeks of my studies. Good thing cause I was hit with terrible altitude sickness upon arrival and needed some extra care while I got my bearings and settled in. As it happens I've got a pretty cozy situation with a small rooftop bedroom which includes a private washroom (score) and a beautiful view of the mountain range just to the north of the city. It's so cozy, in fact, that I've asked to stay on for some additional time because it's very close to the school and we all like each other. About my new adopted family...

Leti & Manuel* are probably in their early sixties, middle-class with one grown & married daughter also named Leti, a granddaughter who is (surprise) called Leti and a brand new baby granddaughter who was born just hours before poor Manuel was charged with picking me up at the airport. As well I've met abuela, Leti's mother whose name may or may not also be Leti, but she was introduced as "mi mama" so I've referred to her only as señora the every other day that she comes for lunch. La señora abuela gives me a mean side-eye when I walk into the room, without fail as if I wouldn't notice - more likely she doesn't care. I assume she finds me and my kind unacceptable. I'd cut my hair very short, for practical reasons just before I left SF, so I expected at least a few odd looks here and there. In any case I'm not offended, probably because la señora abuela is nearing ancient, kind of reminds me of my own salty old abuela and she dotes on me over lunch while simultaneously throwing me shade. I think I'm growning on her.

Leti la mom is total Almodovar fabulous. I'm sure she uses rollers to achieve her perfectly coiffed up-do, probably goes to the salon on the regular because her frosted tips need to be maintained, and her powder blue eye make-up application is something of high hipster envy. In her former working life she was a local lunchtime caterer. Apparently she would whip together something like fifty meals a day and fit them all into their VW Bug with some kind of tetris-like expertise. And like all the moms I've encountered in el Mundo Latino, she preoccupies herself with fussing over everyone else and what they will want to eat for the next three days. At some point I had to warn my significant other that I would be leaving behind my regular person clothes and bringing home a lot of stretchy soft pants and tent shirts. Looking at Leti she could be from just about anywhere in Latin America or maybe even someplace else as she's of the lighter-skinded (yes, it's a word) variety of Mexicans who probably doesn't have much, or any, indigenous ancestry. By Oaxacan standards, she's a giant at a little over 5 feet. How she stays svelt, I have no idea.

Manuel is Leti's perfect counterpart. An adorable little dark brown man with a friendly manner and a serious stutter that doesn't slow his roll in the least. He's an accountant for the state of Oaxaca, is obviously intelligent and loves to dance and listen to live music. Last Sunday morning he pumped up the volume on three alternating discs of Joao Gilberto and samba-shuffled around the dining table by himself while I pretended to read the news on my computing machine. I've also taken notice of the fact that he puts actual thought into what he wears instead of dressing like he fell drunk on meds into the clothing drive bin in the retirement village reception lobby. This morning I clocked his suede ankle boots, Levis not of the mom variety, and a tucked in collared cotton shirt. Leti says he's fussy but I find him quite charming. Manuel's dream is to retire soon and open up a cafe where he will sell three specialty coffees he designed himself: an espresso with a twist of lime rind, a Turkish coffee mixed with unsweetened Oaxacan chocolate syrup and a super-dark roast poured over almond ice cream. He will sell exactly four pastries " estilo Estados Unidos:"  brownies, (e)scones, biscotti and cinnamon rolls. Brilliant, count me in!

My homestay is in the Noe Valley of Oaxaca City (read: hushed residential) and kind of removed from the soul of the city so this Saturday I'm leaving for a hostel in the center of town. Although I'm sad to go and a little scared to be pushed out of my new nest, I'm no longer dizzy, I need to lose the rolls of quesillo oaxaqueño I put on at Leti's table and circulate with the cool kids in el centro... they have nothing on my adopted family.

Old Zapatista hipster living

*names have been changed to protect the nice people who are feeding/watering me

En el Camino / On the Road

I'm a little over a week and a half into a journey to find my Spanish-speaking self in the city of Oaxaca de Juárez, Oaxaca, Mexico. 

A little background...

My grandparents are from Mexico and spoke only Spanish at home, my mother's first language is Spanish, all the kids on the block and probably two-thirds of the migrant farm-worker town I grew up in spoke mostly Spanish, and yet somehow the language planted itself firmly in some dark recess of my mind rarely budging but for the occasional curse word or foul phrase (gracias abuela!). What started as major shame for being a brown kid in a wider white world, eventually turned into a shame for being a brown person unable to respond and converse in Spanish with the ease and fluidity that came so naturally to everyone around me. For as long as I can remember I've experienced wells of panic and barbed-wire knots in my stomach when confronted with the expectation that I should be able to order a bowl of menudo in a restaurant without stuttering incomprehensibly. After all, how could it be that someone who actually enjoys eating chili-infused cow stomach soup isn't able to ask for a second bowl in Spanish? That's just weird. 

The shame and dodging of awkward situations came to a screeching halt when I decided to take a week long vacation to the beautiful beach town of La Paz, Baja California Sur this last August. It was time to (wo)man up and squeeze out as much Spanish as I could without hesitation or remorse for trying. The result? People thought I was... errrr... how to put this delicately... uhm, people thought I was s l o w. No, but seriously. Someone was kind enough to tell me that I presented, at least physically, as obviously Mexican and my accent is dead-on so when I stare blankly at the store clerk who asks if I want my beer and chicharrones double-bagged, or say things like, "I enjoy the many food betrayals of this area," or accidentally tell someone that I'm romantically attracted to their blind, ailing grandmother, it's weird. Just weird. 

I was recently granted an amazing mid-life-crisis style opportunity to choose a new path for my life, so I've decided to seize the moment and head south for proper Spanish lessons and immersion. All kinds of things happen when you leave your bubble - in fact, it's where all of life's greatest possibilities arise so here I am, on a road that I hope leads not only to an ease in speaking the language of my people, but to things I don't yet know. Vamos a ver.

Around the corner from my homestay in the neighborhood of San Felipe del Agua