Oaxaca

The CD player was playing Cuban jazz I had brought back from Oaxaca.

I sat in my room in DC. Outside, the sun was shining brightly.

At this hour in Oaxaca, the plaza would probably already be crowded with people of every kind — musicians playing live music, people sitting in sidewalk cafés watching passersby, beggars lingering on street corners. Santo Domingo would be standing proudly beneath the midday sun. Along the pedestrian streets, tourists would be drifting in and out of local shops. That half-block market would be overflowing with brightly colored handicrafts and artwork.

I was thousands of miles away from Oaxaca, yet somehow still inside it.

City

Oaxaca is a small city in southern Mexico. Nearly half the population is indigenous, so the city has retained a strong local culture. The music is passionate and vibrant, yet carries a deep sadness. The paintings are rich with bold colors, but their themes are often surreal. The city itself follows a classic Spanish layout: churches, plazas, narrow streets, and vividly painted houses glowing with color.

I first heard about Oaxaca from S. Later, I came across descriptions of the city here and there, until it quietly became a wish of mine to visit. Traveling alone was nothing new to me, but going to Mexico still made me nervous. In the end, temptation won, and I set out.

After several connections and a long journey, I finally arrived in Oaxaca on the second night. When I stepped off the plane and saw the flickering orange “OAXACA” sign above the terminal, I felt as if I had reached the edge of the world. Was I really here — this distant little city I had heard and read about so many times? On the drive from the airport into town, seeing the familiar place names from books appear on real highway signs felt both surreal and strangely intimate.

The city was poor. In the southern districts we drove through, the houses were worn down and the streets dirty.

By the time I reached the hotel, it was already midnight. I washed up quickly and went straight to bed.

The next morning, I opened the window and thought: wow. I had no idea where I was anymore. Elegant Spanish-style architecture painted in brilliant Mexican colors. White walls, pink windows, a fountain in the courtyard. Since it was the holiday season, poinsettias filled the stairways and the courtyard. Passing from the back courtyard into the front hall, the colors shifted into large expanses of bright yellow. The first floor housed a restaurant; the second floor opened into balconies decorated with flowers and plants. Paintings with unmistakably Mexican styles hung on the walls.

The hotel was not luxurious, but it was clean, orderly, and beautifully managed. Best of all was its location — right in the middle of town. When I got tired from walking, I could simply return to my room, take a nap, wake up, and head out again.

The weather in Oaxaca that season was so pleasant you barely noticed temperature at all. Every day brought blue skies, thin clouds, and a gentle breeze that seemed to greet visitors softly as it passed by.

The plaza was Oaxaca’s grand stage. A square surrounded by flowerbeds, large trees, cafés, and restaurants. No matter the hour, it was always crowded and alive. Singers, dancers, vendors, locals, tourists, performers, spectators — people walking, standing, sitting, talking, laughing. Music, shouting, conversation, clinking glasses and dishes all blended into one great noisy mixture. The plaza was chaos, but joyful chaos.

Past the plaza stood one of Oaxaca’s old churches. The scars left by earthquakes only added to its sense of history. No matter how much history changed or nature shifted, Oaxaca celebrated every night. Performances never stopped: folk dances, symphonies, music and spectacle all sharing the same stage. Quality hardly mattered. Singing, dancing, drumming — every day, nonstop.

Sandy once said, “They celebrate every day. I just don’t know what they’re celebrating.”

But celebration itself seemed to be the spirit.

Walking past the church and turning north brought you to the pedestrian street. If the plaza was Oaxaca’s heart, then the pedestrian street was its artery. The stone-paved road was lined with shops, restaurants, museums, and cafés.

At the far end stood the Church of Santo Domingo, Oaxaca’s spiritual center. Its architecture carried strong local influences — solemn without feeling distant or cold. Built from local materials, the church glowed with earthy yellow tones. Inside, murals, sculptures, gold, silver, and gemstones overwhelmed the eye. It was exquisite and magnificent.

Connected to the church was a monastery and garden seamlessly integrated into the architecture, pushing Spanish colonial design to its fullest expression. At the end of one corridor, a window perfectly framed both the nearby streets and the distant mountains. Open courtyards carved quiet spaces inside the building, shutting out the noise of the city beyond the walls. The balance between openness and enclosure felt perfect.

The open-air corridors surrounding the building were ideal places to look at the scenery or simply think. Each archway framed another view like a painting unrolling before your eyes.

Oaxaca was not only home to monumental buildings like Santo Domingo. Even ordinary houses casually painted along the streets displayed astonishing color combinations. These homes also followed Spanish-style layouts. From the crowded streets, you would push open a narrow door into a courtyard surrounded by corridors and rooms. Walk deeper and there would be another courtyard, another corridor, another set of rooms.

“How deep can a courtyard go?”

The people of Oaxaca were simple, warm, and passionate. Perhaps because of the holidays, there were constant parades, dances, performances, and celebrations in the streets. Music and fireworks filled both day and night.

Ruins

Before the Spanish arrived, Oaxaca was already the political and cultural center of southern Mexico. Civilizations rose, flourished, and declined here, leaving behind ruins and stories.

Monte Albán was a palace complex built atop a flattened mountain ridge. It could not rival the Aztec city of Teotihuacán, nor the Mayan grandeur of Chichén Itzá. Yet all these indigenous civilizations collapsed before Spanish guns and cannons. What remained were stories of suffering, struggle, and helplessness.

These native civilizations were far more advanced than the tribes encountered by early Americans. Perhaps that is why the United States was able to wipe away indigenous societies and build an entirely new nation, while Mexico has always been forced to negotiate and struggle between Spanish and indigenous identities.

One became an economic and political power. The other became a nation burdened with unresolved contradictions: drug trafficking, corruption, poverty, violence.

Mitla, however, stood apart with its extraordinary geometric stone patterns.

Thomas and Sandy

One of the greatest things about traveling alone is meeting interesting people.

Without Thomas and Sandy, my trip would have been completely different.

They were an American couple who had traveled all over the world and taught in Spain, Japan, and China. Thomas was easygoing, cheerful, and nostalgic. Sandy was sharp, witty, and principled. Both of them were incredibly kind.

Seeing me travel alone, they invited me out every evening. The three of us wandered the streets, had dinner, sat down for coffee, and talked late into the night. They were knowledgeable yet humble and relaxed. Almost every evening, we talked until midnight before returning to the hotel.

Music, Dance, Weddings, and Culture

Mexicans are wonderfully imaginative. In the United States, Santa Claus stands outside stores ringing bells. In Mexico, Santa Claus can be tied to a cross or climbing over walls delivering gifts.

Oaxaca had many poor people. Walking down the street with takeaway food in hand, someone would ask you for it within ten steps.

I arrived in Oaxaca at midnight and left at dawn.

Sitting in the taxi to the airport, I felt reluctant to leave. The streets were quiet, the stars bright overhead, and distant lights flickered along the mountainsides. Most people were still asleep.

I don’t know if I will ever return.

But I know I will never forget this place.