The Last Kidnapper -- Oaxaca, Mexico

I have had the most exquisite last few days. And I fully anticipate the next few days will be equally (if not more) exquisite. 

Couchsurfing has been a mixed bag for me -- a mix of about 70% fabulous and 30% absolute shit. 

"I live a life of extremes," I'd shared with Orange Cat during his visit. "Everything is either unbelievably wonderful or it's fucking miserable. Not a lot of happy mediums for this lady." 

(medium is translated as "middle ground"in this sentence. I do have an abundance of happy witches in my life. Or a fair amount, anyway. As far as witches go)

And even though the majority of my volunteer/couchsurfing experiences are sublime and the kind that go well beyond the generic "restoring hope in humanity", I was still tentative about couchsurfing in Oaxaca City. 

Because 30% absolute shit is enough to make the 70% sublime smell pretty questionable. 

"I hate that I'm becoming this person," I told Troy during one of our Skype conversations. "I want to be able to trust without having to analyze options first. I don't want to miss out on all the spontaneous, intense, playful interactions between strangers because of the 30%. Argh. I hate feeling so jaded. So unenthusiastic and reserved." 

But I don't believe I'm becoming a pessimist. 

I am in the middle of the confusing (but necessary) transformation between a naive optimist and a pragmatic optimist. 

And sometimes pragmatism feels disturbingly similar to pessimism. 

"I just want to know that I have a safe place to go if things don't work out with a host. I hate anticipating that things won't work out, but... I never want to be victimized again because I feel "stuck". Ever." 

This is why I slept at a hostel for the first six days of my stay in Oaxaca City. I'd planned to stay with a host named Dan after the six days in Hostal Don Miguel, but after nearly a week of not replying to my emails, Dan sent me a short message saying, "I'm sorry, but I can't host you. I'm going to Puebla." 

What? Not even an explanation? Well. Crap. At least I know my way around the city and I found this cheap place to sleep... should I not be able to find another host, that is. 

But I did. Find another host. I found Erick. 

And Erick falls solidly into the 70% fabulous category. 

I mean. This is his home. Anyone whose home is a climbing gym automatically falls into the fabulous category. 

As Erick doesn't open his home/gym until 5:00 pm, he was able to drive me to the nearby town of San Martin Tilcajete to hunt down a traditional Oaxacan carved and painted animal for Cathy. My friend from Colorado had given me a hundred dollars with which to hunt her down a piece of Mexican art, and I'd been looking forward to finding her souvenir for weeks.

Alebrijes (aforementioned carved animals) were hallucinated by a very ill Pedro Linares in the 1930s. These fantastical creatures were dancing about in his dream, screaming "Alebrijes! Alebrijes!" over and over and over again.

So when Pedro Linares decided to stop being so very ill, he, logically enough, brought the creatures of his dream into the physical world with the use of paper mache. It didn't take long before Frida Kahlo and Diego Riviera noticed his whimsical work. And shortly after that, the rest of the world followed suit, including a chap by the name of Manuel Jimenez. Jimenez was a wood carver and a great admirer of Pedro's dream animals, but somewhat less than enthusiastic about paper mache.

And now alebrijes are carved from cool wood. Derived from the native copal tree (which is becoming less and less native, as the carvings become more and more popular).

I wasn't allowed to take pictures...

I want to hallucinate rabbits like this. 

... but I managed to sneak in two snapshots on the sly.

In other news, Erick has taken me climbing --

and has introduced me to the best of the following:

a) the best tlayuda
that massive Mexican tortilla guy fried in pig fat and topped with beans, quesillo (similar to brined mozzarella) and various meats. Also, this may be my new favorite song: Las Tlayudas Song
b) the best mezcal
tequila's smokey abuelo
c) the best memelita 
OH MY GOODNESS. Thick corn tortilla. Shmeared in pig fat con cracklings. Sizzled to perfection on a clay camale and (if you make the right choice) topped with salsa, chorizo and cheese. Yes. Please
d) the best chai tea
out of this world rich chai with a shot of intense Oaxacan espresso
e) the best drink I've had in Mexico thus far. Pulque. 
Pulque is a thick, white alcohol made from agave sap that has been proudly getting people drunk for over a thousand years. The Mesoamericans made it spiritual, the Spaniards made it secular, the Jesuits made it profitable and beer made it unpopular (thanks a whole fat lot, Europe. You already squashed the religion -- can't you leave the alcohol alone?). Because the production of pulque is so delicate, many superstitions surrounded the creation of this ancient inebriant. No women or children allowed in the production room. Neither are men with canned fish breath or men wearing hats (if you wear a hat, you must immediately chug a hatful of pulque to turn the luck around). Unfortunately, Pulque can't be found far away from its source because like federweisser, it's the sort of drink that just keeps fermenting and can't be stored for long. Which is why I'm going to go out and drink more tonight.
f) the best tetela
If you ever find yourself in Oaxaca (lucky you!), go here: ITANONI Immediately order the tetela with chicharron. You will be delighted to find yourself presented with a stuffed triangular tortilla, BURSTING with flavor (and I'm still talking tortilla here -- not the insides) and filled with fried pork skin and cheese. Apply salsa. Lots of it. Enjoy. Order another.

When I'm not blissed out on Mexican food with Erick, I'm usually at the library studying books on mindfulness. With varying degrees of success. At this moment, I am not a remotely enlightened lady nor have I developed the ability to focus on what's in front of me regardless of what's around me. In the US, I was always taught that libraries were places where you stifled sneezes and padded down sterile hallways lined with books like a library ninja. Or Pocahontas. Else the bespectacled master of ninjas behind the counter would attack (quietly) with her ninja stars.

In Oaxaca's English Library, this is not the case. People stomp, they erupt into coughs, sneezes, hocking up yesterday's tlayudas and loud conversations between women in their late forties about their traumatizing experiences with men masturbating in front of them.

"Dear me, how long are you staying?"

"I'm stayin' 'til the end of the month."

"Well, I just wanted to warn you, there're these men upstairs... I don't know why Juan let them in. They were dirty and they smelled. Anyway, they kept asking me, "what's your name?" in a weird way. I look down and I can see what they're doing with their hands!"

"Men..."

"Why are men so crazy?"

"I don't know. I mean, when I was in the sixth grade -- "

And the stories went on.

And on.

And on.

These are the days my focus takes a nosedive into a very unpleasant place.

One thing about Oaxaca's English Library is that I'm always surprised and amused by is their rather unusual organization of books.

I go to the Occult Studies section to find books on the lunar cycle and shamanism in Mexico, and I find titles like, "Same Sex Love".

I sit at the table next to the Mythology section and glimpse titles such as, "The Intimate History of the Orgasm", "The Omnivore's Dilemma", and "Caring for Your Parents".

And when I'm not at the library, I'm walking.

an abandoned tamale/hot chocolate cart. 

When I'm not walking, at the library, or blissed out on Mexican food, I'm fighting/cuddling Erick's cat.

Erick has also made one of my all-time favorites mistakes as an intermediate English speaker.

We were sitting at the kitchen table the other evening, and he passed me a napkin to help keep the coconut curry off my face (Mexico has made me a sloppy eater).

"Here. You take the last kidnapper."

Another all-time favorite mistake was made last week while I was at the hostel. An elderly Japanese fellow approached me while I was Skyping Boy and tried to engage in conversation.

Japanese man speaks Spanish (with a Japanese accent) and Japanese.

Aimee speaks English. And understands a few words of very clearly enunciated Spanish.

Awkwardness.

"Como te llamas?" asks Japanese guy.

"Aimee."

"Ay-mi-lee?"

"Aimee."

"Ay-MI-lee?"

"Aimee."

"Aymilee."

*sigh...*

The Japanese man reached into his daybag and pulled out a jar of red candy. He twisted the lid off and handed me a single piece. I noticed a that a kiwi was painted on either end.

"You know... CorrUMba?"

"Corrumba?"

"Si, CorrUMba?"

"umm... is that a kiwi? Yeah, I love kiwi."

"No, no... CorrUMba."

"Kiwi."

"Cerca de Panama."

"OH! Colombia! No. I don't know Colombia."

For the rest of my stay at the hostel, my kiwi (but not) friend smiled broadly whenever I entered or excited the hostel, yelling a greeting or a farewell of (always), "Aymilee!"