Oaxacabound

Day 11

I went to breakfast this morning and on the way back through the plaza, I noticed an older guy with an old fashioned shoeshine box. I used to get mine done all the time at airports when I was flying 3 or 4 times a week, but it’s been years so I sat down. First he used a lighter to carefully burn away any loose stitching or rough leather at the seams (a bit concerning), then he scrubbed them with some kind of detergent, then brown stuff, then red stuff, then I swear ground up red peppers, then conditioner, then one type of sealer, then paste wax, all applied by hand with vigorous massaging.

His English might even have been we worse than my Spanish, but we chatted the whole time about where he was from (here), his kids (3), his grandkids (7), furthest place he had ever been (Idaho), Trump & Claudia (terrible). After 20 mins, I was getting afraid that I might miss my tour but he was so intent on his work, I didn’t want to disturb him. The cost? 50 pesos ($2.50)

A similar thing happened the day before. My car was covered in mud halfway up the doors because of another Google Maps shortcut through a rutted field. I pulled under a tent on the side of the road doing carwashes and 2 guys with 5 gallon buckets scrubbed and rinsed the bejesus out of it 3 complete times before toweling it dry and glossing the tires. When I pulled into a station for gas 5 mins later, the attendant said “Beautiful car.” I thought he was messing with me, but he was serious. The cost? 75 pesos ($3.75)

Everywhere you go in Mexico, you find people who take enormous pride in seemingly menial jobs even though they make very little. Tollbooth operators, ticket takers, laundries, hotel staff, car parks. Any time you need anything, there’s always someone there to cheerfully assist.

When my shoes were done, I gave him 100 pesos and started to walk away. He thought I misunderstood the price and called after me to wait for my change. I said “No necessito, gracias. Mucho gusto por tu digas y experto trabajo.” I believe that’s mangled Spanish for “Not needed, thanks, I enjoyed your talking and expert work.” Again, it was only $2.50 for 25 mins of work. Look at these beauties:

Which brings me to a pet peeve. Many people, mostly Americans and expats, have warned me that this is not a tipping culture. Some have even said that it offends people. I don’t know where this nonsense comes from. I was talking to another traveler who had heard the same thing and he said “Don’t they know how little people make here?” I just looked it up….$300 to $1000 a month.

I’ve always followed the American standard as a minimum…used to be 15%, since Covid 18 to 20% and people have always been very grateful. Nothing insane, normal. So throughout this trip, I have asked every service provider I’ve interacted with about this, and the answers have been virtually identical…”It’s not necessarily expected, but it’s greatly appreciated.” Nuff said.

Soooo, I made it on time to my tour bus to visit another local town called Tequila. Guess what they invented? This smacks of high treason. I mentioned earlier the state of Oaxaca makes most of the mezcal; the state of Jalisco makes most of the tequila. They are frenemies like Dallas and Houston. They don’t much like each other but an outsider better not saying against either of them.

Some friends took me to a mezcal distillery last year and I can honestly say everything about that tour was better…more old world processes, less industrialized. Plus, in a 2 hour tour, this guide served us (no exaggeration) less than one shot combined. He kept saying “Here, try a bessito” meaning “little kiss”, and he meant it.

For those of you who’ve never been, they make both mezcal and tequila from the core of the blue agave (pina, like pineapple) with the leaves cut off, not the leaves themselves. When it’s raw, it tastes like wood, but when it’s cooked, you can chew it and it’s full of fruity juice.

The second half of the tour was quite a bit different in the way that a church social is different from a frat party. We first stopped at a cantina downtown where the guide directed us to kneel under a keg while he opened the spigot a trickle and the whole group counted loudly while you filled up.

It’s interesting how much easier things are in life when you know what’s possible. The first guy made it to 24 and we thought, OK, pretty good. Who knew? Then the next guy did 36, the next 42, then 60, 70 etc. Same with the women. None wanted to try, but then one did and they all did. The guide went last…100, of course. That was perhaps the only competition I was ever glad to lose.

Out in the zocalo, there were hundreds of tables with people from all over the world. I met 4 former frat brothers who were on a 10 year reunion trip. I was married in college and got sick the first time I ever tried beer so I never lived that part of the college experience. They embraced me as one of their own.

One had seen a video about the largest margarita in the world served only here so about a dozen of us chipped in on one.

Then the mariachis arrived and it was singing songs none of us knew and dancing (yes, dancing, and no you can’t see video) for the rest of the night.