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Calle Colón June 16, 2022

In the late hours of our third night on Calle Colón, a familiar whistle sails through the sky, followed by an explosion, then another.  A loudspeaker can be heard from the Zócalo uttering a rapid list of grievances, and it sounds as if the protestor with the microphone is talking about “manzanas,” or apples, but we could be wrong.  Regardless, the blasts continue for most of an hour.  They seem like they are getting closer.  Another whistle signals fresh incoming.  Our fancy sound-proof windows are insufficient against the barrage.  This is where we now call home.  I take strange comfort in the booms and bangs and shouts for justice, as I know I am still very much in Mexico.

Our next-door neighbor, directly to the north, is the vacant edifice of Templo San Augustin, built in the late 16th century.  Until the arrival of the Jesuits, the Augustinians were responsible for educating the youth of Oaxaca.  These days, they do not seem to be doing much of anything.  The descriptive sign posted to the adobe wall is emblematic of its forgotten history, as it is weathered beyond legibility.  But at least there remains the nursery school, on the southern annex of San Agustin, which stays lively and boisterous every morning. 

Outside on Calle Colon, at the corner of Calle de Amenta y López, the daily urban bustle is intense, since we are located within two blocks of the central plaza, as well the city’s two principal markets:  Mercado Benito Juárez and Mercado 20 de Noviembre.  These giant bazaars consist of a cluttered maze of mobile stalls, jammed tightly between a dizzying series of passageways and sheltered below an arched pavilion.  During the daylight hours they see countless shoppers in search of a bargain, whereas after dark they are shuttered to all but the dangerous denizens of the night.  

Already I have lost myself more than once within the labyrinth, and I am reluctant to even venture there again without Vanessa as my stalwart guide.  Passing by the piles of room-temperature animal intestines, hooves, and tail parts, I check to make sure my K-95 medical mask is secure.  Somewhere in this teeming stew of humanity may lie the vector for some future pandemic.  This must be where my street gets its enteric name:  Colon.

Whenever I do manage to stumble across an exit to fresh air, I must immediately locate a street sign to determine what side of the city I have emerged and what it will take for me to restore my bearings on Calle Colon.  All of this is happening while venders and beggars are yelling at me to sample their goods and indulge their emphatic pleas.   

Closer to home, however, the things for sale in our immediate neighborhood are of a specifically disposable kind; chiefly, Novedades y Regalos.  Everything one might ever want for a fiesta can be found in the dozens of shops around our apartment building.  Here there are party favors, piñatas, ribbons, banners, flags, cakes, candles, fancy dresses, sequins, balloons, cheap gifts in bulk, and colorful bags for revelers to take their loot home after the reveling has been exhausted.  All that is missing is the box set of live mariachi players.  Indeed, I learn that the owner of our building, Miguel, whose large store is across La Calle, is in fact the most successful novelty salesman of all, and he stores much of his vast inventory immediately beneath our feet.  If I ever find cause for conspicuous celebration, I know exactly where to go—downstairs to Bowel Street. 

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