Rocking into Oaxaca, Oaxaca

1:00 AM.   Delerious, and exhausted.  We had been on the road too many hours, maybe twenty.  I talked between reality and a dozing delirium, confusing myself.  Dad was too deep into a trans to realize.   Back on winding roads, mind on auto-pilot, weaving down the mountain this time.  Our GPS lost track of us.  I suggested we pull over, any-forsaken-where, to sleep.  Dad reminded me we were told not to sleep pulled over on the side of the road.  Soon after, a gal and guy were on the side of the road flashing lights, requesting help.   It had been hours since we saw another car.  They may have been their half the day, who know when they’d next find someone to stop and help.   We left ’em in our dust.  Dad reminded me we were told not to stop for strangers on the side of the road at night.  #America.  I, too exhausted to really care, agreed: “Yeah, its a trick and shit”.  Or that was all a dream, I don’t know, delving back into my delirium.

We stopped at a drive up motel, but held out hope we’d soon hit the heart of colonial Oaxaca, Oaxaca.  Fromm Native Zapotec and Mixtec settlements, to Aztecs military posts, Montezuma II’s gold, Spanish conquest & Orozro’s expedition, Mexico’s Independence and 20th century Zocalo protests, the valley has two thousand years of stories.  Some of triumph, some of horror.  We found a “centro” sign, bared left at the fork, made a left onto the cobblestone and stayed straight for three blocks.  Lights, movement, the sounds of music, voices, laughter, banter and everything we were hoping for.   A wave of relief.

I jumped out, per instructions by Pops, to find wifi and book a hotel ‘on my magic app’.  I was SoOo happy to be walking around, out of that damn car.  And, in the old city center where the history is palpable and the patrons happily spill from the bar fronts.   It’s about 2AM at this point, and dad is talking to a gal on the side of the street while I’m skipping building to building for a free wifi signal.  Dad decides the gal might be a prostitute and stops talking to her.  I’m curious to find out and say “Hi!”.   Dad is damn far up the road, but I run him down before it’s too late.  We dart over to Hotel Trebol, eventually finding it on the corner of Calle Flores Magòn and Las Casas, a block from Zocalo.  It was dark, but I knocked loud.  Two dudes were half asleep on the big brown couches of the front lobby, apparently in charge of Trebol at these wee hours.  They were reluctant to let us in.  Something about showcasing my dad in our haggard vehicle swung us into favor.  They push the huge heavy wooden doors open and we walked in. It was vibrantly Southern Mexico, floral, stucco, arches and old wood.

1,455 KM, which is nearly 25 hours if you realistically consider the drive.  At this point, I’ve no faith in smooth sailing.  Everything will look better in the morning.  It always does.


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