Primer Dia en Oaxaca de Juárez June 8, 2022
A violent rainy season follows us from the coast to the capital city of Oaxaca. On the evening of our arrival, we are inundated by what the Oaxaca Post describes as a “whirlwind,” dumping several inches of rain over a two-hour period and filling the sky with electricity that shuts down power. The ancient cobblestone streets around Templo Santo Domingo briefly become rivers. Tarps collapse over the ladies preparing tortillas on their wide metal griddles, leaving venders to flee for cover with their possessions over their heads.
On the Zocalo, a massive 150-year-old laurel tree is uprooted in the high winds. A record of its thunderous fall is widely circulated on social media, showing people screaming and running for their lives. Miraculously, the crashing timber barely misses the central gazebo, where many had gathered for shelter. Reported injuries were minor, but the trauma lingers a day later, as dozens line the yellow traffic tape to photograph the demise of a mighty giant.
Our temporary apartment in the city center proves more temporary than ever, as it fills with water during the deluge, driving scores of cockroaches up from the conflagration below. I would cover the shower drain with my Octavio Paz paperback, but these creatures seem large enough to lift it in their desperate flight to safety. I should have chosen a Franz Kafka novel. Amid the many horrors, life finds a way.
All of this prompts Vanessa to criticize my hyperbole, but I must remind her that sensationalism is what sells copy. Regardless, we are properly chastened by our precarious residential status, and we make a point of improving our digs for an extended stay, choosing a third-story dwelling with the most modern of conveniences in this 16th-century metropolis—secure doors, updated wiring, ample water supply, and a guaranteed escape route to the roof, where we will wait for a helicopter rescue.
We will give Oaxaca de Juárez six months to work its magic on us, and we will do so in relative luxury. Saving for the future seems like a futile gesture at this moment. Like my primitive language skills, I can only know the present. This suits my psyche, for in the past lies only depression, and in the future lies only anxiety. But the present remains exquisitely defined.
Vanessa and I say, “Hola, Oaxaca de Juárez. Mucho Gusto. Bienvenida a nuestra vida. Adelante.” Under the long shadow of a towering Benito Juárez comes the rain again. We are ready as ever.