The plane banked low over the Sierra Norte mountains and I caught my first glimpse of the valley below, terracotta rooftops glowing in the early afternoon light. Oaxaca. I had been dreaming of this city for two years.
The airport is small, unhurried, and immediately warm in every sense. A taxi wound us through the outskirts and into the historic centro, past crumbling walls painted the colour of saffron and rust, past women selling flowers from woven baskets, past a world that felt entirely its own. I had my notebook open before we even reached the hotel.
We checked into a boutique posada two blocks from the Zocalo, the kind of place where the courtyard has a fountain and bougainvillea climbs every wall. The room was simple, the sheets were white, and the window looked out onto a narrow cobblestone lane. Perfect.
"Oaxaca doesn't ease you in. It grabs you by the collar and pulls you into its colour, its noise, its extraordinary flavour."
The Zocalo at midday is everything a main square should be. The great cathedral of Santo Domingo looms at the northern end, its baroque facade almost impossibly ornate. Jacaranda trees drop purple petals onto the stone pavers. Marimba music drifts from somewhere you cannot quite locate. I sat at a cafe beneath the portales and ordered a tlayuda, that enormous crisp tortilla loaded with black bean paste, quesillo string cheese, and smoky tasajo beef, and ate it slowly, watching the city breathe.
That afternoon we wandered into a traditional mezcaleria on a side street, the kind with unmarked bottles and a proprietor who speaks through the spirit itself. He poured three varieties: a young espadin, a wild tobala, and a rare tepe. Each one was a revelation, smoky and complex and nothing like the mezcal I had tasted at home. We stayed for an hour longer than planned.
The Mercado Benito Juarez is a sensory ambush. Stalls upon stalls of mole pastes, seven varieties ranging from the deep chocolate negro to the bright, herb-forward verde. Chapulines, toasted grasshoppers seasoned with lime and chili, piled in mounds beside dried shrimp and smoked meats. The smell of fresh tortillas pressed on a comal nearby. I bought a small clay pot of mole negro paste to take home, knowing full well it would never taste the same once removed from this city.
For dinner, a rooftop restaurant overlooking the city. The sun dropped behind the mountains in long bands of orange and violet, and the cathedral domes turned gold, then amber, then a deep bronze. We ordered black bean soup, enchiladas with mole coloradito, and a carafe of mezcal sour. The city spread out below us like a map of everything good.
Back in the room, I opened the window to the lane below. Somewhere a dog barked. A radio played something with brass and percussion. The night air carried the faint scent of copal incense from a nearby church. Tomorrow: Monte Alban, the ancient Zapotec city on the hill above the valley. I set the alarm for six and fell asleep almost immediately, the kind of deep, satisfied sleep that only travel gives you.
Filed from Oaxaca de Juarez, Mexico. January 31, 2022.
