Bus, Walk, Taxi, Plane, Plane, Taxi & Home

We spent our last day in Puerto Escondido in the pool, reading our books, walking along the beach, eating fresh fish. Steve is kind and offered to take us to the bus station in the evening. He was wearing a Dexter tee shirt and Chris asked if he had worked on the show and, in fact, he was a location scout and manager for four years before coming here. He was visiting a friend here two years ago in November and when he got off of the plane—before leaving the airport—decided he could, should and would live here. He stayed the month of November, went back to LA, put in his papers for retirement and by March was back here for good. Chris and Steve talked Steve Earle the rest of the way to the airport. It turns out before Steve was in film, he was a record producer (an experience he describes as outhouse to penthouse to outhouse again, requiring a reinvention), and he was interested in Chris’ reviews of Justin Townes Earl, with whom he was unfamiliar. He made it clear he would like to have us back and we made it clear that we would like to come back and I think it was clear to everyone that next time we’ll probably share meals and drinks. 

Steve got us to the bus station at just the right time; we only had to wait minutes before the bus arrived and we were off. Unlike the colectivo we took to PE, we arranged for a first class bus back to the city. It was scheduled to leave at 8:45 in the evening and takes between 10 and 11 hours. We hoped to not lose a day of our trip in transit and that sort of worked. The bus was relatively comfortable and air conditioned and had a bathroom—all of which were positives. There were movies and it turns out it is relatively easy to piece together the plot of Rio even when it’s in Spanish because it is basically scene after scene rip offs from other movies, so really you’ve seen the whole thing before .The second movie was a Mel Gibson movie, and, as those closest to me know, I have an irrational and unnatural loathing of Mel Gibson. You know, mostly because he’s a racist, misogynist, anti-Semite, who denigrates almost everything I believe in and still gets cast in major motion pictures. I didn’t love being stuck on the bus with that. It would be like if Chris was stuck on the bus with John Edwards—about whom he feels as vehemently as I do about Mel Gibson.

We played some backgammon and then, thankfully, nature took its course; we eventually fell into fitful sleep. Really, we slept most of the night because we’re too damn old to stay up all night no matter how uncomfortable the situation is. Several years ago, Susan gave me a clever travel kit—blanket, mask, pillow small enough folded to tuck into a purse—and I was glad I had it on the bus. That said, for a number of reasons, it wasn’t terrifically restful. In the middle of the night, an abuela’s Tupperware full of juice glasses fell out of the overhead compartment, opened and glasses rolled everywhere in the dark. It was spectacular, however, when we woke up before dawn, to watch the sunrise over the mountains. We began to recognize the small outlying towns we had visited on the first leg of our trip and knew we were close. 

Within a half hour, the bus had stopped and the driver got off, got back on, got off again. There was another bus perpendicular to ours and Chris craned to see if it was an accident. The bus perpendicular to ours jumped a curb, drove through over a pedestrian path in a median and headed back in the direction we had come from. There was some muttering on the part of the driver and then we were doing what seemed to be a reverse three point turn in something the size of a Coach bus. There was some rocking back and forth and eventually the driver said the streets running into the city were closed and he could go no farther. There was no further explanation. People shuffled off the bus and collected their luggage and looked for cabs. We found a cab and gave the driver our address in the city and he said he could not take us there, that it was impossible to get a cab to the city center. There was no further explanation. We removed our bags from his trunk and started walking. We were not far from the bus station, no more than several city blocks, but we were not close to our residence. Some streets were totally deserted and others were filled with cabs, all parked perpendicular to the causeway. It quickly became clear that we were in the midst of a cab strike. We walked for over an hour and probably miles with our suitcases and carry ons (plus guitar!) and saw that the cab strike had affected garbage pick up, which was a more major issue than usual because it is the time of a Guelaguetza—an annual two-week long celebration that has occurred in some fashion for over 1000 years and in its current fashion for over 80 years. It has only been interrupted once—by the teacher’s strike of 2006. In the Benito Juarez park, which we walked through with our luggage, Guelaguetza is reminiscent of Taste of Chicago. Imagine the Taste without garbage service. There was what seemed to be an increased police presence in the streets as well, and it felt a bit like everything had changed while I was trapped on the bus with Mel Gibson and that possibly there was a war going on, but in the end it really was just the cabs.

We finally arrived at 301 Independencia and I was mid-apology for our arriving so late, when Kelly told us that we had arrived a day early so that was awkward. He’s a kind man and our room was open so he rushed to plug in the refrigerator and light the pilot on the hot water heater and generally make us comfortable. We probably could have done the bus ride without the nap but there was something about the bus ride and walking the last bit of the journey that forced one. We settled in and Mexican Foof joined us as if we had never left and we all felt better after some rest. We spent the afternoon wandering around and headed back to Benito Juarez to enjoy their Taste and did. We had elote, crepes—it turns out that while Nutella makes almost everything else better, cream cheese makes Nutella better, and quesadillas with chiles and mushrooms. There was an International Mezcal Festival going on in the center of the park and artisan booths at the perimeter.

When we returned home at the end of the day, our entire street was filled with taxis—three lanes of them from corner to corner and we wondered if the strike would continue today, making our trip to the airport difficult, but it seems to have been a final stand kind of thing. Kelly mentioned that cab strikes are not unusual and only last a day or two at a time.

Last night, I dreamed that Archie was with us except each time I went to take a picture of him, he was a different age—sometimes his current age and sometimes just a little boy. I think it means we probably should have been bringing him with us since the beginning. We’ll have to ask him if he wants to come with us next time.

We went this morning to a Oaxacan breakfast buffet to have one last regional meal full of things we just won’t find at home: chocolate con agua, quesadillas con flors, espinaca y nopales, papas con chorizo, jugo de pepino (which I might have to start making at home if I can figure out the ratio of cucumber juice to sugar—the ratio is something like some to a ton) and walked to the Zocalo for a goodbye glimpse. We saw that the headline on today’s paper said SECUESTAN AL TURISMO and we were excited to have a whole article written about how our lives were made difficult by the cab strike. We also saw police in riot gear and tons of people organizing for a rally, something about education and the indigenous people, and I would have liked to stay but we needed to leave for the airport.

I mean, I thought we needed to leave for the airport because I forgot that the Oaxacan airport is nothing like O’Hare. It took us about five minutes to check our bags and move through security so we went and sat in the sunshine for a bit and now we’re waiting for our plane to arrive in a gate that has six other people in it. We probably could have gone on a daytrip given the amount of time we allowed for the airport. 

Last night at dinner, Chris and I talked about how long we could stay in Mexico (or, I guess, anywhere we liked that wasn’t home) and we agreed we could both do this for longer. That said, because we have to come home today, there are things that I look forward to. We’ll have breakfast with my parents and sister tomorrow morning and I’m looking forward to seeing them. I’m looking forward to choosing something that isn’t in my suitcase to wear. I’m looking forward to uninterrupted wireless service. I’m looking forward to Heinz ketchup and once again, I’m looking forward to flushing my toilet paper. Mostly though, I’m looking forward to going home so I can look forward to either coming back or heading out someplace new.