Diary of a Juera.

I have now been in Oaxaca for two days and two nights. The buildinds here are short and colorful, and their facades range from stone to brick, and well-manicured to crumbling. Oaxaca reminds me of Kyoto - a town in a country that provides ample heritage and culture for its native residents.

I am staying south-west of the Zòcalo, which is like the underbelly of the city. This is the Mission Street of the Mission district, the Ikebukuro of Tokyo; it is where the people, la gente, of the city resides and does business. I ventured into the Mercado 20 de Noviembre where the vendors tried getting my attention by yelling "¡Juera!"***  I wasn´t sure if I should be freaked out or if they were simply just trying to get my attention. So I settled on both.

Oaxaca redefines what street food is. Nothing costs over twenty pesos and the flavors are insane. I just finished scarffing down a tamale, huge, and stuffed full with quesilla, pickled jalepeños, and flores de calabaza. That is, a string-like salty cheese and squash blossoms. Gracìas abuela.

In a couple hours I will depart on a twelve hour bus ride to San Cristobal. I made sure it was only a one way ticket because I might have to fly back -  twelve hours people, twelve.

Until then, later putas. 


***JUERA ***
A White girl, especially a blonde-white-girl. Specifically an American.