Oaxaca

I left Puerto Escondido at 2:30 in the afternoon, just long enough for me to get in a real good sunburn since I won't be back near the beach for a while. I thought the busride would take 6 hours, thus getting me in at 8:30, easily early enough to find a hostel. By that time; however, we were only half-way. I'd somehow bought a ticket for the indirect route. There were no people standing in the aisles and it wasn't unbearably hot, but I did have to watch Vin Diesel's "The Pacifier", dubbed, and even worse, Dolph Lundgren's new film "Direct Action"; unfortunately, that one was in English.

As I hadn't planned a) on getting in at 2:30am and b) at all for this trip, the first hostel was booked. God smiled upon me though because the next one, very nice and incredibly cheap, did. I dropped my bags and collapsed on the bed.

Besides wandering around Oaxaca, my object for the day was to figure out how I was going to meet my friend Liz, who was flying into Cancun in two days. Fearing a 24- hour bus ride(s), I walked to the bus station. No dice. There was no bus to Cancun. I'd have to make a connection at Villahermosa, 12 hours away. All the seats for Villahermosa were booked til the next day as it was, and if I got a immediate connection to Cancun, a big if, I would still be late
meeting Liz.

I marched back to the city square and talked with a travel agent I'd seen when I'd walked through before. The only flights I could take would cost a fortune and get me there late. They didn't have any cars for me to rent either. I left the travel agency, went to an internet cafe, and found a cheap plane ticket that would get me there in time. I hate middle men.

My transportation resolved, I took time to wander about and enjoy the art capital of Mexico. I found myself not straying far from the zocalo (main square). At its center was a rotunda, but what set the zocalo apart for me were its massive oak trees, which seemed to form a cannopy, the ruby red poinsettias planted in between the walkways, and, most of all, the festive atmosphere. Cafes ringed the square, which was restricted to pedestrians. Street musicians played, the impoverished peddled their knick-knacks, shoe shiners toiled at their stands, and people sat wherever they could, talking, resting, laughing, singing, or kissing as the spirit moved them.

I must admit a shameful secret. I wanted one of the dozens of beggars who pleaded with me to cuss me out for not giving him money. Oh how I wanted that! "You're just broke. I owe 100k. Why don't you give ME money, you selfish, lazy bastard!!" Sadly (fortunately?), no turned-away beggar rebuked me.

Besides being the art capital of Mexico, Oaxaca is the Mezcal capital of the World (not to be confused with Mescaline. Belgrade is the Mescaline Capital of the World). I wasn't 100% on what Mezcal was when I came to Mexico. Someone once told me that when they make tequila, the prime liquor removed is the tequila and the dregs are mezcal. Once here though, I discovered that like squares and rectangles, all tequilas are mezcals, but not all mezcals are
tequilas. To further my research, I took my notebook with me and headed to the aptly named "La Casa de Mezcal."

Stone-cold sober, I took a seat at a table in the dimly-lit, smoky bar. Two tables away sat the best looking girl I've seen in this country. Damn my elementary Spanish! Five word sentences in the present indicative are more than fine to get me where I need to go and function day-to-day. I can't imagine I'd "spit game" at her with such captivating locutions as "Estas guapa. ¿Donde esta el baño? Quiero una cerveza." Much as I do in bars in the states when I'm near a pretty woman, I figured, "Why waste my time?", pulled out my notebook and started writing.

When my waitress finally came I ordered a beer and mezcal, though I told her to choose the mezcal. She came back a moment later with an impressively large shot of their 12-year-old house reserve. Of course she brought me the most expensive one. I was a tad embarrassed. What to do, what to do? Obviously it was in a shot glass, but, at the same time, it was a very nice mezcal. I didn't want to throw it back only to have all the locals gasp in horror at the American if I were supposed to sip and appreciate it. The only people with full glasses near me was the table with the good-looking girl. I kept sneaking peaks to see what they did, but they just wouldn't touch their drinks. I had to stop peaking because the good-looking girl caught me multiple times.

Finally, I asked a waiter. "¿Trago o sorbo? (Gulp or sip?)"

He looked at me as if I had something growing out of my forehead.

"¡Trago!" he said in such a way, which I deduced was an idiomatic way of saying, "Duh, you stupid American!"

I hoisted the shot glass and knocked it back. YOWSA!!!! What Devil drink is this? I immediately got that warm, rosy feeling I used to get when I'd first started drinking bourbon as a teen. Certainly, the bar was crowded, but it had to be the mezcal that made me start sweating. I began to sense it was going to be one of "those" nights. A bit more social lubricant and I might very well end up robot-dancing on a table and getting tasered into a filthy gutter.

I quickly used my dictionary to learn how to say "I want to sample more!"

The following are my notes on the other mezcals:

1. Gusano: smoother
2. Cedron: harsh again, with rubber aftertaste (I think a guy is hitting on me. Hard to say. He hates mezcal. WTF?)
3. Pechuga: vodka-like, but with the agave aftertaste.
4. Minero: Jesus Fire and throat clenching
5. Sol de Vega: Honey-like, but cough worthy. Save me Cuenta! Please, please save me.

____________________________________________________________

So yeah, in the middle of my research, a mexican guy sat down at the table next to me. He started a conversation. Usually, I'm pretty damn oblivious to that sorta thing since I'm friendly, but the beach in Acapulco had me wary. I made sure to mention meeting my GIRLFRIEND Liz (a small lie, but defensible in the situation) in Cancun.

"You meet a girl in Cancun...or maybe you meet a guy! If that's what you want!"

I wanted to scream, "Look MF! Just because I'm wearing a hawaiian shirt with a floral print, that doesn't make me gay. In fact, I'm pretty sure that no self-respecting gay man would dress like I do. That should be your first clue to leave me the #$%! alone!!!!"

What I actually said was, "No. I like women," and turned my back to him, which, in retrospect now completely sober, I think was probably the last thing I should have done to a man who was interested in my backside.

I went back to writing and taking shots and he left me alone, save for a brief spell where he tried to get me to hit on women and then later when he took my pen to write down his number, which he gave to the waiter who'd mocked me. I paid my bill and got the hell out of that place, and made it back to the hostel posthaste.
____________________________________________________

When I got tot he airport, I made sure to put my knife in my check-in bag. I blanched white when security stopped me after the xray machine and pulled out the wine bottle opener I'd forgotten to take out of my small backpack. Visions of Mexican jail danced through my head but the security guard just told me to take it and put it in my check bag. I told him to chuck it in the trash.