Cafe con Pan

Home is where the Heart is.

Feet kiss Mexican soil and the streets of the country’s capital pulse with pollution and people. A cacophony of voices sends me spinning prior to departure:
“Express kidnappings”
“Drug wars”
“You’re a single white female”
“You only know Hola!”
“What if you get Swine Flu?”

With five Spanish words in my pocket, I buy a one-way ticket to Mexico. All the warnings (which I like to call noth-lings) wash down the drain as I arrive by overnight bus to Oaxaca, a colonial city nestled in the middle of the mountains. Twitching my nose like Tabatha in Bewitched, I wish for a bilingual tongue. I am a circus seal attempting the alphabet. I am the pink elephant in the room, the child who blurts out disjointed sentences and chases words around the kitchen table. I could, however, create a handbook of CURSE words for the curious traveler. I have a pocketful of swear lingo ready for launching taught to me by the company of Mexican hombres.

The next day, I journey into the belly of the mountain to Tlalixtac de Cabrera for La Calenda – a fiesta giving light to one of the many Saints. Stumbling backwards when a firecracker is let off – the missile gives heed that they are approaching. Cellophane swans and fish dance on long sticks while cross-dressers in spandex and stilettos shake hips to the brass section. Extravagant flower arrangements take the streets, towering shadows in footsteps. Children are dressed as ghouls, headless Kings and goblins.

When the marching band is met with a corner of people, sweets are thrown into the crowd – hundreds of wrapped caramels and salsa flavored lollipops. Shots of mezcal and cactus water is passed from mouth to mouth. I can’t help the paranoid thought bubble: “Meningococcal anyone?” Nonetheless, I down mezcal, letting it heat my larynx, chest, ribcage and search the road for leftovers.

We follow a van to a local musician’s house, where they jam on the grand piano and pluck Cuban guitars. A Mexican with a fierce paunch bashes out harmonies, a revolutionary leader amongst the underworld of Oaxaca. He sings, bellows and burps. I love the way he eats, the way he scoops chili chips inside his upturned mouth, the way he swigs beer back like popcorn. Life is swimming in his belly – dancing ladies, treble clefs and guitar chords spill from that great world of roundness.

There have been handfuls of days where I think I am ready to take the first raft out of the deep end, when I think: “I am not saying Happy New Bottom, I am saying Happy New Year!” Then there are days when I think even King Pacal of Palenque shares his backyard of trees and crumbling ruins. Days when smiles wrap you like scarves, when you play hide and seek with 8-year-olds and watch passing piñatas in cobblestoned streets. Days when it tastes like home, you can smell it in the coffee beans and feel in the cat’s purr. H to the O to the M to the E is where the heart is.