15/ Leaving Oaxaca
“Radar, did Hawkeye just steal that Jeep?”
“No sir, that’s the one he came in.”
“Oh, very good.”
-- M*A*S*H, The Motion Picture
Nestled in an outer arm of a medium-sized spiral galaxy, an unremarkable yellow star goes about its business. Caught in the vortex of its gravity well are millions of chunks of space debris—some large, some small, some in-between. One such chunk, a planet possessed of a nurturing, protective atmosphere and deep blue oceans of water, spins on its axis as it careens relentlessly around its parent star. It has completed a round-trip roughly four-and-a-half billion times.
During the planet’s most recent circuit, one member of a species numbering over seven billion individuals (a species in the ascension at this writing but soon, if geologic history is any indication, to pass unnoticed into oblivion) decided to live a small portion of his life on a different part of the planet’s surface. In cosmic terms this event was unnoticeable, lasting far less than a blink of the galaxy’s eye; but from the individual’s point of view it was a lifetime unto itself. Time is elastic, and while parts of the year’s trip around the sun seemed mired in molasses, other parts flew by as if on wings of fire. Heedless, the planet spun the days on and on, oblivious to the human timeframe and to the individual’s vain attempts to hold fast to moments that he wanted to last forever.
A year has come and is now irretrievably gone. What’s left is memory, the anticipation of future reunions, and the ever-present razor’s edge separating the two, on which we are bound to pass our brief moments of existence.
Preparing to leave a place you’ve been living for a while feels a lot like being funneled into an ever-narrowing chute, in which your remaining options, opportunities and, above all, time are steadily diminishing as the departure date approaches. In the final few days there is packing to be done, and the disposal of things not being packed; checklists of errands to run, of people to see one more time. There are visits to favorite restaurants and, if you’re lucky like me, a last music gig or two; beers in the Zócalo and conversations in the cafes. As the clock ticks off the final countdown there are fewer and fewer things left to check off, and then it’s zero hour and you are in free-fall.
There is a feeling of helplessness about it all, despite knowing that it is the result of my own plan, set in motion over seven years ago. It’s like one of those sci-fi scenarios in which the hero falls into a wormhole, where he is stretched and squeezed like a strand of spaghetti until he enters the singularity from which nothing can escape—only to be spit out unceremoniously on the other side, wondering where the hell he is and how he got there.
The modern air travel experience mirrors this scenario. Your journey begins in a wide-open airport, and then you are herded into a long, featureless tunnel, at the end of which you are squeezed into the close, sterile confines of an airplane cabin, where you must endure a purgatorial limbo before being expelled through a similar tunnel at the other end, re-born into a new and radically different life.
It’s profoundly disorienting how quickly we can now transition between dramatically different geographies, climates and cultures—especially when the process has an air of finality to it, as it did on June 19, 2019, when we arrived at Oaxaca International Airport at 5:30 a.m. with our six suitcases (one more than we came with) and my trusty old guitar. As the sun lit up the valleys of Oaxaca our plane took off, circled over the city one last time as if reluctant to leave, and then veered northward toward the border.
With Evelio Morales at Oaxaca International Airport, June 19, 2019.
Since that day I have been experiencing a host of strange emotions. It is all at once weirdly familiar and utterly alien; looking at Seattle with fresh eyes, I wonder how I could have been so blind before as not to notice the casual, unrepentant affluence on display in a land where cottages sell for a million dollars and housewives drive Maseratis on their daily rounds. I am feeling a resurgence of the inner insistence to always be doing something—working, playing, exercising, shopping, entertaining; to return to the same dogged routines that I was eager to leave behind a year ago. I am trying to resist these urges, but the differences between our lifestyle here and the one in Oaxaca are telling: We must drive, rather than walk, to most destinations; spend the majority of our time indoors, rather than outside in public spaces; and we must pay much, much more for basic services and casual meals out. And—disappointingly—no one is expecting us to speak Spanish to them.
It’s true that everything here is brighter, cleaner, sturdier, safer. (After two weeks I am still not accustomed to the idea that I can drink water right out of the tap.) I had gotten used to things being simpler, cheaper, older, and—in some way I can’t quite put my finger on—more authentic.
I still can’t believe that the year is over. “Did it really happen?” Martha has asked me more than once—because here we are, walking the same streets, buying groceries at the same stores, running into the same people as if we had never left. In many ways my present reality is much less compelling than that of the recent past—perhaps because it is less demanding of my constant attention—which makes Mexico now seem even more deeply dimensional by comparison. Memory is a strange and mutable thing, but I am resolutely clinging to my memories of our time in Oaxaca as proof that something did happen, that things are different now, that we are immeasurably richer for having taken the leap. Because if I don’t, I fear that time will erode those memories into something featureless and bland.
Given that we‘ve just extended the lease on our house here for another year, we have determined that Seattle is not where we’ll be spending most of our time for the foreseeable future. Instead, we’ll head over the mountains to the vacation home that we built years ago outside of Winthrop, Washington—a small, rural community just east of the North Cascades near the Canadian border. From our cabin it is a twelve-mile drive to the nearest grocery store, and in winter the roads are icy and treacherous. Most of the time, all you can hear from the house is the wind in the pines, and at night the stars are strewn across the sky like diamond dust. With the possible exception of the time we spent in the Sierra Norte, our lives will be as different from Oaxaca as they could possibly be.
At the end of every episode of the old TV series The Lone Ranger, the townspeople (or homesteaders, or wagon-trainers) whose day had just been saved by the Ranger and Tonto would gaze at the retreating duo galloping off into the sunset. They would turn to one another in wonderment and awe, asking “Who was that masked man?” “I don’t know,” came the bemused reply, “but he left a silver bullet.” The panache of these episodic exits left a lasting impression on my young mind: In the idealized worldview of black-and-white TV, your job was done when you helped someone overcome formidable obstacles to happiness and left their lives better than you found them. And then you rode on.
The passage of time has yet to provide a classier exit than the one exhibited each week by the Lone Ranger—and it continues to be what I aspire to emulate. I can’t say whether my own departure from Oaxaca even budged the needle on this scale, or whether anyone asked Who was that masked man? in its aftermath. But judging from the outpouring of affection we received near the end of our stay, I think our presence there made a difference in at least a few people’s lives. There’s no doubt whatsoever that they made a difference in mine.
I spent the last year of my life attempting to forge a new identity—one built around learning to think in another language, being openly responsive to a new culture, trying to shed my American parochialism and become, at least in a figurative sense, a citizen of a different country. Sometime during that year I sprouted a new head, one that did more and more of the thinking and talking for me as I increasingly felt at home in that wondrous place. I really came to like that new head, but in a single day of travel it became superfluous, and it is still struggling to understand its relevance to life back in the States. We are home, but we are homesick.
With time, patience and a bit of grace, I hope that my new identity will be absorbed into the old one in a way that makes us both a better person. But for now, despite the physical beauty, easy comfort and general predictability of life in my re-adopted home city, I find my heart still yearning for mi linda Oaxaca.
Here are a few of the things I’m missing:
The smiles: Dazzling white against caramel skin, ready to flash in response to the slightest friendly gesture or random remark, lighting up the faces of young and old alike.
The food: Is it too soon to be missing la comida oaxaqueña—the soul-satisfying street tacos, the richly flavorful moles, the savory soups, the piping-hot handmade corn tortillas? Not a chance.
The pace: People talk about “Mexican time,” which in the States is often used as code for laziness and irresponsibility. In Mexico, it means prioritizing the enjoyment of life, love and friendship above all other things.
The color: The case can be made that oaxaqueños go overboard in this department, that there simply is no logical reason to bedeck yourself and your town with every color in the rainbow just because someone wants to celebrate something. I say, bring it on.
The friendliness: The warm greetings and perfect manners of complete strangers; the welcoming generosity of casual acquaintances; the speed with which both of these can become lifelong friends.
The music: I’ve talked about this already. Enough said.
The infrastructure: Yes, it’s true—most everything in the city of Oaxaca has a well-worn, run-down appearance, from her sad, crumbling, graffiti-strewn walls to her death-trap sidewalks. But it’s real, it’s authentic, and it’s how most of the world actually lives.
The pride: Mexicanos love their country, and oaxaqueños love their city and state. This unites them under one banner in spite of their personal or political differences in ways that Americans, for all our supposed sophistication and advancement, cannot seem to manage.
The street dogs: Amiable, low-key and unobtrusive, they are as much a fixture of Mexican life as parades and festivals. Should they find a bit of shade against a stone wall, they’ll quietly sleep the day away. Let them lie.
The sounds: Here’s to the “Gas de Oaxaca!” truck loudly announcing its daily rounds; to the playful screams from a nearby schoolyard; to the “tamale-tamale-tamale” man passing on his bicycle cart; to the church bells clanging in the early morning air; to the random fireworks blasting overhead morning, noon and night; and through it all, to the constant rhythms of the Spanish language being spoken, shouted, cooed and barked in markets, parks, bars, taxis, radios, televisions and in the street.
And a glass of mezcal to the rest: Street vendors; ancient Volkswagens; churches ornate and simple; jet-black hair and charcoal eyes; ramshackle buses; the weight of history and depth of tradition; and all the countless other things that make Oaxaca the most fascinating and rewarding place I’ve ever lived.
