A note from the bus...(end)

Oaxaca:

I think visiting a place for the second time is better than the first. It felt great to hit town, walk right to the hostel (where they know my name), and start running my Oaxaca errands. The first of the errands was to scout my ticket to the Mexico Norte station, the second was to go have a "Café Oaxaqueño" at a place called Los Cuiles. I still don't know what a Cuil is. Afterwards I played guitar on the street for quite some time and had a good talk with a French guy that happened by. A bed without snoring, fireworks, booming music, or razor-sharp spines facilitated a pretty incredible sleep.

 

In the morning I awoke, poured myself a cup of coffee, and sat in one of the hostel's many hammocks conversing with some guys. Lucien, a tall, gentle, dredded Frenchman with a good sense of humor (and who lives in the forest); Peter, a shaggy, wiry professional vagabond from the northwest hitchhiking through Mexico; Evan (who wanted to be called Tyrone."Who forgets a white guy named Tyrone?" he asked.), an eccentric waiter/cyclist who had cruised a huge chunk of the world and was headed for the bottom of Argentina and back up. We four formed a daylong band (the kind that hostels often bring into existence) and went to the ruins of Monte Alban, just above the city.

 

It was a downright enjoyable day. We meandered through the ancient city atop a hill in the middle of the Oaxaca valley, stopping many times to reflect on the Zapotec civilization and life in general, and to eat mandarins. For Peter and me, both having spend a good chunk of time in Mexico, it was a time to speak English again. As we were hitching back to Oaxaca, he stopped mid-sentence and remarked "…this is definitely the most I've talked in a really long time." And it was true. But good. Especially for me, since I needed to brush up on my English before hitting the states. After a while in Mexico I realized that my English was a little less fluid because I was always battling the urge to express things the Mexican way. Like if something was boring, I would know what I was feeling about it, but would be slow in saying it in English because my thought would be "me da hueva" instead of "it bores me," ...and so on. But a morning with these fellas, recounting adventures and learning quite a bit, was more than enough to bring my English rhetoric skills roaring back.

 

A few tacos later, I excused myself to buy my bus ticket and try to find a decent shirt (I'd left my favorite t-shirt out to dry on the rooftop in Pluma Hidalgo). The ticket was a success, the shirt a failure. In the evening, dinner was prepared by the Frenchman while Peter and I jammed out on guitar and mandolin. Our rendition of Wagon Wheel was fun enough to have us headed for the door to take it to the streets, but Lucien finished the main course and we had to stay. I'm not sure what it was, but it was sumptuous. After dinner, having some pesos to get rid of, I invited everybody for drinks on the town.

 

The day in Oaxaca speaking my native tongue and having lots of what I classify as good conversation was a little reminder of what I'll be able to do as often as I want back in the states. In a land where intelligent conversation is as hard to find as tacos are easy to find, it was a breath of fresh air. And though I was a bit jealous at times of their adventures that will continue for months more, I couldn't help but be satisfied to be heading homeward whilst they were heading away.