First night in Oaxaca

I spent my second night in Mexico in a hostel five blocks from the zócalo, the main square, of Oaxaca. In the standard international flavor of Mexican hostels, my fellow residents included an Argentinean, a white Botswanian, an ethnic Japanese Swiss citizen and the obligatory handful of Australians—Mexico is apparently a preferred destination down under.

The hostel, MezKalito, is one of more than a dozen that litter downtown Oaxaca and, based on what I saw by popping into half a dozen to ask their nightly rate, one of the most attractive. The hostel’s central patio is painted in vivid orange and blue tones, a handful of potted plants add some green, and soft hammocks hang from the courtyard’s fat columns. There is also wireless internet and, for the computer-less, four computers with internet—though two were down when I was there. On that note, the bathrooms, though very clean, are not in the best of shape.

My first trip to the hostel’s men’s bathroom went something like this: I entered needing to pee, noticed two of the four urinals had out of order signs, peed in one of the two remaining, flushed and watched water rush in and nothing go out, flushed again to the same effect. So, I decided to forget it and wash my hands. I went to the sink, turned the knob to no effect, I tried the other knob, same result, I tried the next sink, again nothing. Luckily, the third sink had both functioning faucets and a functioning drain. As I washed my hands, I read a computer print-out taped to the mirror titled in English: ‘How to Conserve Water.’

My trip after dinner, to do number two, was nearly identical. I entered a stall, was about to sit down when noticed there was no bin for waste—necessary as Mexican plumbing is not designed to accommodate toilet paper. I entered the second door, again was about to sit when I saw there was no latch on the door. Again, the third was the charm. Budget accommodations, budget bathrooms. (And actually, much nicer than many of the budget accomadations I’ve since chosen.)

After a restless night’s sleep, breakfast was hardy affair, if only faintly Mexican. I ate scrambled eggs, corn flakes, a bun and a very wet portion of beans. Chatting with my Swiss dorm mate, who was an animated conversationalist despite his awkward English—not a bad lesson for me—I learned he had spent a week in Los Angeles prior to arriving in Mexico. What did he think? “They have a very good subway system.” Maybe someone could tell the residents?

After an only half-successful attempt to ask the hostel’s morning manager for directions to El Centro de Idiomas, my school for the next month, I packed and left. As recommended by the manager, I caught a bus from the nearest corner. The trip was a success in so far as I did not knock anyone over with my backpack—itself larger than many of the other passengers—but when I later arrived at El Centro I learned that the 25-minute ride could have been accomplished in a 10-minute walk. Such are bus rides in the traffic-choked downtowns of most Mexican cities.



To be continued...