We were trying to book a “last-minute” trip to Oaxaca over winter break and having no luck with “good” fares, ie. those under $600.  Indeed, prices were veering upwards of $900-1200 per ticket.  Okay, granted, we are less than five weeks away from our intended departure date and there is a penalty for waiting so long to decide whether we were going again.  I think we spent a good six to eight hours traveling around various travel sites to compare prices and schedules and determine whether the published fare was what it would actually cost us once the taxes and fees are added on.

Our preferred routing has been on Continental through Houston which is the only airline that has a direct flight to Oaxaca.  However, the hefty cost was prohibitive.  We searched Travelocity, American Airlines, Expedia, CheapOAir, and Airfare Watchdog, finally landing on Hotwire where the published prices include all taxes and fees (no hidden costs here).  On the others, the enticement is a low fare until you go to book and discover that $110 to $160 can be added on, or the price quoted is only for one-way!

We decided to book on Hotwire to Mexico City where we found a round trip fare for $438.  We’ll spend the night in Houston for $45 (with our AAA discount) at a Knight’s Inn three miles from the airport, and pick up the morning flight to Mexico City.  From there, we’ll take a $5 taxi to the CAPU bus station and take a $35 first class bus (TV and toilet) to Oaxaca and get in in time for dinner.  Our total savings will be around $400 plus or minus.  Not bad for a bit of online fare sleuthing.

On the return trip, I’m planning to bus from Oaxaca to Puebla, spend the night and pick up another Talavera ceramic plate or two.  Four hours via bus from Oaxaca to Puebla, another hour and a half from Puebla to Mexico the next day.

It was going to be touch and go, I just knew it.  I could imagine the luggage I left back in Oaxaca, filled to the brim and getting heavier in my mind’s eye.  That’s why I decided to ask Talavera Armando to ship the three plates, bowl, and six small tiles I bought.  How much, I asked, would it be to send these by air freight.  Fifteen hundred pesos, she answered.  She pointed to the maestro who was in charge of shipping, saying that he does this every day.  Barbara pulled out her iPhone with the instant currency converter app and showed that the cost would be $123 USD.  We gulped.  Then, we thought about what it would mean to jam these things into our luggage, which was already at risk of being overweight, and decided to take the plunge.  Okay, we said and forked over our pesos.  It’ll arrive by Monday, she said, four days from now.

Back in North Carolina, I waited.  Then, we got a call from FedEx.  Talavera Armando had not transcribed my address correctly, even though I had printed it clearly enough.   My husband, who received the phone call, corrected the address and today, four days later, we received the package.

Gleefully, I just opened it only to find the poorest packaging possible, a bit of bubble wrap protecting the fragile contents, in a box much too small to safely cushion each piece.  In fact, the dishes were wrapped together with only a thin veneer of bubble between each of them, and there was no tape to keep the bubble wrap secured.   When I saw that, I was not surprised to see that the contents arrived broken.

Lots of things work in Mexico.  This didn’t.  I have filed my FedEx claim, but who knows?  Meanwhile, the $123 we paid for shipping and handling (most of which probably went to the “handling” or the “packaging” was a way for Talavera Armando to put a few extra dollars in their pocket.  I’ll know better the next time.

Meanwhile, everything I packed myself and shipped home in my suitcase came undamaged.  The safest bet is to use Mail Boxes Plus or Mail Boxes Etc.  They do a great job from their franchise in Oaxaca.

Sheri picked us up in her white van at the pre-determined 9 a.m. hour, early by Oaxaca standards, though the streets were already abuzz with honking vehicles.  Our first stop was the ATM (exchange rate 13.12 pesos to the dollar) to stock up again for the day long adventure down the Ocotlan highway.  We passed the airport and headed south along the valley highway that leads to some incredible crafts villages, stopping for gas at Pemex the state-owned oil company.  The earlier the better along this road because the Ocotlan market attracts people from throughout the region whose motivations are to shop for the sheer pleasure of it or for survival needs of buying and selling everything from oilcloth table coverings, hammocks, woven baskets, pipes and gaskets, kitchen utensils, leather belts, children’s plastic shoes and everything else under the sun, including live turkeys raised for market, feet bound in twine so as not to escape.  The van boasted New Mexico license plates, a good fit for around these parts, although vehicles are brought down from every state in north America to be bought, sold and traded.

We circumvented the hubbub, stopping first at the three Aguilar sisters whose shops you might miss if you didn’t pay attention.  They are on the right side of the road heading into Ocotlan, about three blocks before arriving at the zocalo, market central.  This is true folk art at its best.  Josefina sits with legs tucked under her on a padded blanket in the courtyard of her home and sales area forming figures out of soft clay that will later be fired in a kiln that may not reach more than eight hundred degrees.  Grandchildren dart around playing with kittens.  Sons and daughters participate in the clay forming and painting.  Tourists from all corners of the earth stream in and out.  This is a famous stopping place for collecting Oaxaca art, yet the prices of the pieces match the humble working and living space:  smaller figures range in price from one hundred and fifty to two hundred and fifty pesos.  That translates from about twelve to twenty dollars each.  Collectors and dealers buy, pack and resell these figures in the U.S. for triple or quadruple the cost.

Next door, sister Irene sculpts hot women of the night and paints their hair yellow, applying blue glitter to create a dress, bosom prominent, one arm on hip, the other akimbo sporting a cigarette, a snake boa wrapped to cover cleavage (just barely).  Imagination flies.  A muerta, not yet painted, bares her skeletal teeth and she flaunts a haughty lilt of the head topped with a wide-brimmed hat to shade her from the strong sun.  How will I get these home?  I ask myself as I consider a purchase.  Oh, don’t think about it, I answer silently.  Go for it anyway, and I do, and because of my magic packing suitcase, everything arrives undamaged.  My prize possession from Guillermina is a skeletal crone whose flowing dress is painted black.  The hem is adorned with cream colored skulls, a red spider crawls along the folds of her skirt, a black shawl frames the sinister face.  Dia de los Muertos is characterized by underworld forms.

Forgive me if I repeat myself.  The impressions of Oaxaca are continuous revelations in memory.   As we head back out of town, we make a left turn almost immediately onto the side road leading to San Antonino, where I want to relocate Don Jose Garcia, the blind potter.  We go down a ways, turn right, make an immediate left at the next street and look for the clay animals that hang over the door to the courtyard that signals we have arrived.  A dog barks.  The door is ajar.  We ring the bell and step inside to be welcomed by the family.  Life-size clay figures cluster around the patio, are tucked haphazardly into corners, are laying on their sides — humans, animals, children.  We are greeted by Don Jose and his wife who guide us into the workshop packed with more sculpture, wall to wall, like the clay soldiers of Xian, men, women, and children stand or kneel side by side, almost alive, waiting to be adopted and taken home.

These pieces are glorious, primitive, raw clay, unglazed.  Some are rough.  Some are polished.  Each with a unique expression that conveys individuality and personality, a special quality that Don Jose has breathed life into as he forms the clay, braids the hair, fashions the nose, tilts the neck, arches the brow or mustache.  These are heavy pieces, primitive.  To ship them would require a crate and an investment of hundreds of dollars.  We admire and take our leave.

Hungry, our next stop is at Azucena where Jacobo Angeles operates a fine restaurant that caters to tourists and tour buses, Elderhostel, and other forms of non-adventure travel.  This is good for San Martin Tilcajete business, since Jacobo represents many of the finest carvers in the village.  On this day, there is a special exhibition of regional folk art on the grounds of the restaurant and gallery, a perfect opportunity to pick up another carving, to eat and drink well, and to make a necessary bathroom stop.

We backtrack to Santo Tomas Jalieza to visit Abigail Mendoza and her family at Nicolas Bravo #1.  On backstrap looms, they weave fine cloth with intricate figures that are fashioned into handbags, belts, wrist bands, table runners, and placemats.  Abigail does the finish work for the rugs woven by Arnulfo Mendoza and Tito Mendoza.  This is among the finest quality backstrap loom weaving you will find anywhere in the Oaxaca valley.

By now, it is five o’clock in the afternoon and the light is beginning to wane.  We travel along the highway back to Oaxaca with a trunk full of goodies, ready for a fresh mango margarita and guacamole at La Olla.  Descanse.

We ate this for a late supper (cena) at El Mural de Los Poblanos restaurant in Puebla.  It was delicious.  The best I could do was identify the ingredients and try to recreate this at home.  The soup bowl came with the chewable ingredients mounded in the center, about 1 cup per bowl of broth.  Our server poured the steaming clear chicken broth into the bowl from a covered pitcher, designed so that the diner would be served the hottest soup possible.  I loved that idea.

Ingredients:

• Cubed queso fresco (the white, firm Oaxaca-style cheese)
• Baby zucchini cubes
• Diced green pepper
• Sliced mushrooms
• Fresh corn kernels (use frozen, then thawed,  if fresh is not available)
• Squash blossoms
• Bits of fresh spinach or chard
• Hot chicken broth, pre-seasoned with salt, pepper, a bit of ground chili for bite

Serve with hot, crusty french rolls and butter and a glass of chilled white wine.

There are one hundred fifty-five pesos in my pocket, equivalent to about twelve dollars.  Just enough left after paying 385 pesos or $25 USD for my extra bag.  Take your pick.  One weights fifty pounds exactly and the other is thirty eight pounds.  The smaller duffle is packed to the gills with soft clothing.  I can barely close the zipper.  I wore the same black pants and two different shirts for a week, so why did I bring all these extra clothes?  It sure didn’t seem like much when I left home.  Space, like time, is precious.  The biggest bag is hard sided and measures thirty inches high by 23 inches wide by twelve inches deep (deeper when unzipped to expand) .  When I install a sturdy woven bamboo basket inside to create a rigid barrier, it becomes a great shipping container for ceramics and alebrijes.  This bag weight in at fifty-one pounds, one pound over limit.  Not even a smile and a plea to let it go worked, so I removed a small bubble-wrapped package from the cache of like wrapped packages, and stuffed it into my carry on.

Now, we are all tucked away in the Continental Express jet to Houston, two hours and seventeen minutes away.  Palms and blooming orange jacarandas line the runway.  The sky is pure, clear blue, without a cloud, transparent to heaven.  It will be another beautiful day.

We walked at night arm-in-arm through the streets of Oaxaca and Puebla, two women, sisters of middle age (though, of course not looking it), linked together now though one from the east coast, the other from the west, coming to a common meeting place to travel together.

Mexico is a place for strolling and we walked together from dusk into the evening to darkness, some nights until eleven or twelve with no fear, no worries.  We traveled round trip by bus from Oaxaca to Puebla, negotiating taxis and bus stations, two among a handful of gringos without getting sick or encountering aggression.

In some of the higher end hotels and restaurants, chefs and wait staff still wear face masks, more of a precaution than a necessity I think, or perhaps a PR message to tourists that they are paying attention to public health safety.

Mexico’s economy depends on three things, a three-legged stool of financial security: remittances, crude oil sales, and tourism.  In 2006, federal income from remittances (the dollars Mexican immigrants living in the U.S. send to their families in Mexico) equaled what was earned from oil exports.

The perception of safety is linked to fear.  Perhapss it is fear of the other, of the H1N1 influenza, of drug wars.  Yes, these are real dangers but the prevalence is imagined.

Puebla is growing on me!  This is the third visit this year and each time, it is a new discovery, a new food to savor, and a return to favorite spots.  I am traveling with my sister who lives in the Bay Area and this is her first visit to Puebla, so I get to play tour guide!  I arranged our stay at Camino Real Puebla, booking online using HotelsDotCom.  The rack rate is about $250 USD per night and we paid approximately $85 per night based on a 13.1 exchange rate.  This hotel is a former convent located two blocks from the zocalo and around the corner from my favorite restaurant El Mural de los Poblanos.  We have a lovely room that was likely a cell for nuns who occupied the 17^th century space.  The décor is colonial with elements of the baroque.  The breakfast is an exceptional buffet.  This morning we had egg white omelets made to order stuffed with huitlachotle (mushrooms and organic corn) and cheese, fresh papaya, guava and orange juice mixed, delicious aromatic coffee,  chilaquiles with salsas verde and rojo, fork tender roasted pork, and black beans.  We started at 9 am and didn’t finish until close to 11 a.m.   Thank goodness this was going to be a walking day, and it turned out that we didn’t sit down to dinner until 5:30 p.m.

After visiting the Museo Amparo, that had an extensive exhibit on performance and political art, strong enough to bring us both to tears (artists expressing themselves about the disappeareds in Chile and Argentina, or the AIDS epidemic, or the environmental degradation of our planet), we hopped a cab needing lighter fare and made our way to Uriarte Talavera.  This was after we had spent a goodly amount of time ogling the beautiful work in Talavera de la Reyna shop that is part of the Museo Amparo.  Next, a taxi ride to the Exconvento Santa Rosa where the famed talavera kitchen is the last part of the hour-long guided tour.  The entry fee is 35 pesos each, and one cannot meander alone or take photos.  Today, our guide only spoke Spanish, so I’m not sure what would have happened if our understanding was more limited.

The Dominican nuns sequestered there in the 17^th century took vows of silence and participated in the rituals of mortification of the flesh.  The superior slept on a wood platform without a mattress dressed in heavy, rough homespun wool year round, and wore a crown of thorns during the day.  Life was interesting then.

Then, we hailed a cab to the area near the new convention center.  Our destination was La Purificadora hotel and restaurant, designed by the famed Mexico City architect Legoretta.  This is a stunning contemporary space amidst historic Renaissance and Baroque buildings, a punctuation mark in spectacular city resplendent in Moorish influences.  This is where we had a unique and innovative dinner:  a trio of appetizers that we shared – tiny squash blossoms stuffed with cheese and deep fried in tempura batter, octopus in a spicy tomato sauce on a homemade tortilla , and an organic mesclun salad with truffle oil dressing served with avocado, grilled tomato, and fresh grilled baby corn.  For the entrée, Barbara had this chef’s version of the same stewed goat in tomato broth that we had the night before at El Mural.  This version was definitely different.  (The great chefs in the city prepare this special dish, Huaxmole or Mole de Caderas, once a year in honor of an ancient pre-Hispanic tradition.)  My entrée with a sea bass steamed over corn husk, topped with onion slivers, chopped red pepper, fresh nopal cactus, and spinach bits.  The sauce was a golden delicate scent of fish broth and cream.

After all this, we decided to walk back in the chill of the evening, strolling in sisterly arm-in-arm, as you soon women do together in Mexican cities, comfortable in their relationship.  It was about ten blocks back to the zocalo and it was a perfect night for strolling, brisk, cool, a bit breezy.  Lots of people were on the street and we felt no sense of being at risk.  Tomorrow morning, we will get up early, take the bus to Oaxaca for our final evening in Mexico before flying home on Saturday.

10 Puebla Favorites:

1. Talavera de la Reyna (Museo Amparo or fabrica/factory in Cholula)
2. Ex Convento Santa Rosa and the Talavera tile kitchen
3. El Mural de los Poblanos restaurant
4. El Camino Real Hotel
5. La Purificadora Restaurant
6. Talavera Uriarte
7. Talavera Armando (request DO4 only)
8. Strolling Cinco de Mayo
9. Everything in the Zocalo, including the Templo Angelopolis
10. Capilla de la Virgen del Rosario (incredible gold leaf and Talavera)

There is peace on the hilltop.  Below muffled sounds of drums, bass, voice, amplify across the valley.  A dog sleeps in the sun.  The gringa healer brings sighs of relief to stressed clients.  A breeze blows over the patio bordered by mature agave fifteen feet tall and equally as wide.  A birdsong adds refrain.  In the distance a cock crows and a dog barks.  Dog barks are incessant here.  Light filters softly through the bamboo wall surrounding the outdoor kitchen.  Muertos ends for this year.

In the cemetery, women whose faces are deeply lined, creases like arroyos and canyons, wrap themselves in wool, polyester, once fine now frayed and discolored robozos.  There is a chill in the air and a fine drizzle begins to fall accompanying the waning light of dusk.  Geraniums planted years ago are now robust, growing over the mounds of dead loved ones, enveloping them like a warm blanket.  Over there a family huddles beside the new concrete wall warming themselves by a small campfire.  The cemetery is expanding, new earth ready to receive both its humble and prosperous.  Death is the great equalizer, they say.

The gringos pass each other with meek smiles or nods, a silent signal to each other.  Of what?  Recognition as the “other”, in communion, in competition for ownership rights, the privilege of being the most connected or the one with the longest history here?  They forget that gringos are visitors and Zapotecs are the rightful heirs of this village.  This valley.  The abuelos nod as we pass in recognition and greeting.  Humanity is spoken through the eyes of women who speak only a few words of Spanish, if that, and in a silent instant tell the beauty and pain of their heritage.  The cemetery reminds us of a temporal life, of hope for a better future, of the value of relationship and the meaninglessness of acquisition.

As dusk descends and rain falls in droplets, the assemblage endures, covers themselves with plastic or an umbrella while the gringos with the expensive cameras pack up and leave.

Only the hummmm of the refrigerator sings to me now as I sit at the top of the hill overlooking the valley below, church spires rising to god’s infinity.  The refrigerator, an opening for abundance.

What surprised me was the abundance of flowers, the reverence for the dead, the celebratory acts of remembrance, the stylization of the calaveras (skeletons) — skulls, bones, skeletons in bread, candy, altar figures, candles, candles everywhere, tall, short, votives.  The mythical combined with the religious.  The blending of Catholic and indigenous practice, laughter and song, mucho mezcal, purple corn tamales, the sitting and visiting, how traditional Zapotec ceremonial practice takes priority over business and work.  Time is for giving to others.  Earl Shorris says that whomever controls time controls their destiny and the way of the world.

There is a rhythm and pace to Dia de los Muertos that goes beyond the parties, food and drink.  It is the giving of bread, chocolate, fruit and candles from the heart, tribute paid and received, an ancient tradition.  You bring six loaves of Pan Muertos.  I give you three to eat.  You bring chocolate, I give you hot chocolate to drink.  Then, I give you a package of other bread, fruit and chocolate to take home with you, symbol of lasting respect and friendship.  The ceremony is in the giving, the receiving, the memory, the tribute to the dead, the time honored traditions.  All this takes time.

The church bells sound at 3:00 p.m. signaling the time to light the copal incense burner and begin the festival meal as the dead find their way back to the cemetery via the sweet aroma and candlelight.  Federico lights the incense and puts the smokey charcoal in the center of the casa courtyard.  We sit down to a meal of morado (purple corn) tamales stuffed with chicken and mole amarillo, chicken, mole negro homemade by Lola, sweet rice mixed with onions and squash, salad, lots of beer and mezcal.  After the meal, Barbara and I walk to the Panteon (cemetery) just a few blocks from the house.  Here, the festivities are more subdued than the Xoxo extravaganza.  The cemetery is smaller and more humble.  The adornment on each tomb is relatively uniform, decorated with a partially segmented orange, hand-fulls of roasted peanuts and walnuts, candles, simple flowers.  Families also gather here in small clusters, talking, cracking and eating nuts, or in silent meditation.  The village band clusters in the center of the cemetery under an awning in front of the large permanent altar to the Virgin of Guadalupe and plays a mix of ranchero music, Mozart, and ancient Zapotec tunes.  This is mostly a horn group and the music is a strong punctuation mark to the more solemn ambiance of the environment.  We see many gringos with video cameras, tripods and still cameras with macho lenses.  This creates an air of voyeurism that is stronger for me than the experience at Xoxo where I expect this.  Because I know many people in the village now, I walk through the narrow paths separating the graves and greet them with handshakes, smiles and hugs.  I ask Raoul, Federico’s brother, what the feeling is about all the gringos in the graveyard, and he says it is good for the village to have visitors because the economy has been so difficult this last year.  I wonder if this is a sentiment shared by most or if there is a feeling of invasiveness into a sacred rite.  This is always a question for me — the cultural sensitivity of being a guest in the village and how to move around with deference and respect for ancient traditions.

No words are necessary!