Sundays in Oaxaca are quiet. The stores are closed; the streets empty.
There is buzz around the churches, as families mill in and out dressed in their Sunday best. Near the Zocalo, children play with oversized balloons, pushing them high into the sky.
But otherwise, the city is silent.
On a recent Sunday, I decided to embrace the calm and seek a quiet resting place where I could sit with a healthy meal, an iced coffee and the words of Carlos Fuentes. The spots I had in mind were closed, so I wandered the streets until I caught sight of an entryway leading into a courtyard shaded in bougainvillea. “Yoga, vegetarian food,” the chalkboard sign read. I had found my place.
I entered and asked for a table. The kind-eyed host explained to me that here, they do things differently, that this is a place for friends. She asked if I wouldn’t mind sharing a table, and she gestured toward my new seatmate: an elderly gringo in khakis and a Panama hat.Inwardly, I groaned. The last thing I wanted was forced conversation with a senior citizen. I wanted to feel Mexico, not be reminded of home.
Outwardly, I smiled and sat down.
“De donde es?” he asked.
“De los Estados Unidos,” I replied.
“Oh, you’re American,” he laughed. “Could’ve fooled me.”
Uh-huh. I pulled out my book and set it on the table.
“Where in the States are you from?”
“New York.”
“Oh, I lived in New York. In Manhattan?”
“Yes, the East Village.”
He laughed. “I used to live right near you, on 4th between B and C. But this was a long time ago, in the 1960s.”
Now he had my attention. You had to be a certain kind of person to live in the East Village in the 1960s.
“Do you know Allen Ginsberg? The poet?”
I nodded. I only idolized him.
“He was my neighbor.”
From there, the conversation flowed: from his life as an art student in the ’60s, to my writing ambitions in the ’10s, to his sons, my sister, his newly remodeled home, my newly redecorated apartment. Mitch was a man in transition, having just retired after decades of working as a museum exhibit designer for the federal government. I too was in transition, on the cusp of returning to graduate school and charting a new career path. He had come to Oaxaca to draw; I had come to write.
I didn’t expect Mitch and I to have much in common, but we did. I was reminded of a basic travel lesson: the necessity of being open to new people and new experiences.
Throughout our nearly three-hour conversation, the host, whose name I discovered was Rosaura, kept us fed and refreshed with a three-course vegetarian meal: crunchy jicama salad, hearty chickpea soup and a yogurt-oatmeal dessert, complemented by hibiscus tea. At the end, she only asked for $35 pesos (about US$3) to cover the cost of the ingredients. Every Sunday, Rosaura hosts this special gathering in the courtyard of the Comala restaurant on Calle Allende in downtown Oaxaca. The morning starts with a yoga session, followed by a meal. All are welcome – so long as they are open to new friends.
[Photo Credit: Jessica Marati]