Almost every detail of my recent trip to Oaxaca was planned over video chat. My cousins1 would dial in from two separate locations in Albuquerque, and I’d be in LA. Over several months, the four of us decided where we were going and when, where we’d stay, how we’d get there, and (some of) what we’d do once we arrived. We even booked our plane tickets while on a video call, each on our own browsers at home. Window, aisle, window, aisle, we decided, hoping maybe we’d luck out and get an empty seat (or two) between us.
That’s how a man named David came to be sitting between my cousin Corrie and me on our 4-hour flight from LAX to OAX. We wouldn’t learn his name until later. He lives in California now, but was returning to Oaxaca to visit his family just outside the city. David was surprised that we were only staying one week, not two. I spent the majority of the flight watching Shotgun Wedding on my iPad, but even I made a mental note of the one restaurant recommendation this relative local gave my more engaged cousin: Tlayudas El Negro.
By the time we got through customs, out of our van ride from the airport, and settled into our Air BnB, it was after 8pm local time. Hungry and here to eat, the four of us set out on foot for this tlayuda restaurant (conveniently, it was only about 15 minutes away from where we were staying). On our way, we passed countless darkened windows and lowered metal roller-shutters. We’d soon learn that for every late night spot in the city, they’re were five that closed at 6pm, or even 3pm, eschewing dinner service altogether. But when we arrived at our destination, it was clear this must be the place. For starters, it was very much open. We were greeted warmly (en Español) and shown to our table beside a wall painted lime-green. A small band played on a platform stage. Cooks — mostly women — brushed beans onto gigantic, crisp corn tortillas at stoves near the entrance. Here we were: Mexico.
I’d been introduced to tlayudas a few years earlier at a Oaxacan restaurant in LA called Guelaguetza2. Theirs were served open-faced, slathered in beans, cheese, meats, and vegetables, looking for all the world like (if you’ll forgive the term) a Mexican pizza. El Negro’s, in contrast, were folded over, meats served on the side, making them more like crispy tortilla sandwiches loaded with salty, stringy quesilla cheese. It was delicious enough that I didn’t care at all that there was only one option that didn’t involve red meat (which I haven’t eaten since I was a teen). It was called “sencilla”, ie “simple,” ie “plain.” Not for the last time on this trip, plain was perfect.
Believe it or not, my intention here is not to write a long-form food diary of my week in Oaxaca. We ate, to be sure, and its reputation as a culinary haven was one of our main reasons for choosing Oaxaca City3 as our destination. But as tasty as the food was, by far the most memorable thing about that first meal out was that David was there. Just a couple tables over, celebrating his fresh arrival with his family. We’d only been in the city for a few hours, and we’d already run into a familiar face. Now we learned his name at a last, and he even had Corrie take down his number to text him if we had any questions. She even used it once or twice.
Across our many video planning sessions, our group had mutually agreed to more or less go with the flow this trip, just seeing what we felt like doing from day to day. The one exception was a multi-hour walking food tour, recommended by a friend from church who’d recently been to Oaxaca himself. That, we booked in advance.
On Friday morning, we met our tour leader, Leiver, and his right-hand man, Roberto, at a coffee shop just across from the most historic of Oaxaca’s several historic cathedrals. We were among the first to arrive of a group about fifteen, and for the first and only time on our trip, English became the language of choice (not everyone on our trip was American — we may have been the only Americans, actually — but everyone spoke English. We made friends with a mother/son duo who were originally from Colombia, but now both lived on the US’s East Coast). Leiver joked with us as he left to go looking for the rest of the group. “I’ll be back in a minute — and here, a minute means five minutes. Five minutes means thirty. And thirty…well, good luck.” This may only make sense to the New Mexicans in my readership, but an instant recognition rippled through our little family. It’s like that where we come from too, Jacob said. Leiver asked us about our dietary needs. Were we okay with spicy food? Again, the New Mexicans smiled. Oh, yes4.
The food tour, which ranged delightfully from excellent work-a-day food stands to Michelin-starred restaurants, was sprinkled with these surprisingly little moments of recognition amidst a cornucopia of newness. Yes, chapulines as a condiment was new, but blue corn was used interchangeably with white — something that might have seemed exotic to someone from some other state, but not to the New Mexicans.
As we walked miles around the city, we each carried a shot-sized jar of local mezcal that had been given to us at our first stop, purportedly as a digestif. Here’s where Roberto really had a chance to shine — if at any point your jar needed refilling, you’d simply go see Roberto. In his backpack, along with wet wipes and hand sanitizer, he had a full-size bottle of mezcal.
That evening, sated (some of us overly so!) from our gustatory exploration of culture, we squared away a few more plans for our remaining days in town. Making the cut were Monte Albán, the ethno-botanic gardens, and an excursion to Hierve el Agua, a petrified waterfall with a natural pool at the top where you could take a dip.
This last adventure required a tour guide, and our group ended up being an even smaller than for the food tour: the four of us, and just three others. Ken and Trish were Canadian expats living in Tulum. Maika was a chef from Spain who had the camera prowess of an Instagram influencer. Our day-long trek took us to a weaving village, a mezcal distillery, and (most centrally) to Hierve el Agua itself, where our dip in the glorious natural spring served as a reward for a borderline grueling hike down the rocky face of a mountain…and then back up. A bonding experience to be sure.
Travel friendships are a strange varietal, as they rarely have the slenderest fiber of a string attached. You don’t expect to see each other again, and you don’t plan to. Accordingly, we were shocked the next day when, in a city of 300,000 people (not including tourists) we passed Maika on a side street. We all smiled and waved raucously, then continued on our way. I lived in L.A. for years before I ever randomly ran into someone I knew. Here, it had happened twice in under a week.
That night, I had to work. Important podcasting to do! Truly, I didn’t mind a night in. My cousins, on the other hand, made the most of the evening by picking out a local mezcaleria to visit, and tasting the establishment’s finest wares. I joined them an hour or so into their excursion, but the most exciting discovery they’d made had already been relayed to me via text.
“Roberto works here!”
Yes, they had chosen from a long list of potential mezcal bars, making their selection based on proximity, rating, and vibe. And as they had started across the final crossing to their intended destination, someone they knew well stood outside the front door. Roberto, the mezcal delivery man himself. And, among friends, service was very fine indeed.
What is travel for? It expands your horizons, right? It shows you how other people live. Some of these new hows and horizons you take home with you. Maybe this changes your life, but at the very least, it keeps you aware that the larger world, with its varying shades, traditions, and norms, is out there, always. It can even make you grateful for things you take for granted, if you have them — drinkable running water, say, or abundant toilet seats. Alongside al of that , if you’re lucky, you’ll get a different kind of discovery altogether: how small the world is, how full of familiar details and — if you remember to look out for them — familiar faces.
It was my two cousins, one paternal and one maternal, Corrie and Meghan, and Meghan’s husband, Jacob. We all just say we’re cousins.
While in Oaxaca (and also on the plane, from David), I’d learn that Guelaguetza is the name of a big local festival that’s held there every year. It’ll be happening next month.
aka Oaxaca de Juárez. Oaxaca, to clarify, is also the name of the state of Mexico wherein the city is located.
We were asked about our comfort with spicy foods A LOT while in Oaxaca (Es pica. Bien?) and while we always answered in the affirmative (Sí, Muy bien!) we were served very few things we found genuinely picante. Thanks, Hatch chiles!