Days of Heat and Adventure

Having been through the colors of the rainbow with Natalie, my world is starting to feel a little black and white, but here it is.  Many things have happened since I last wrote.  One that stands out most is that my parents visited over Memorial Day weekend.  Since they were in Oaxaca last year, we skipped over some of the “usual” tourist attractions and set out on new adventures instead.  It all happened against the backdrop of the hottest days since we have been here.  I did not track the temperature, but it definitely was in the 90’s, and it might have hit triple digits.

Feeling the heat.

Our first adventure was to find the perfect Alebrije (painted wooden sculpture) to replace the not perfect Alebrije my parents bought last year for a niche in their bedroom.  On our way to the town of Arrazola, where they make Alebrijes, we stopped at the Abastos market to see the flower trucks that are there on Fridays.

The back of a flower truck.

My mother surprised a rose vendor, who was offering packs of two dozen long-stem roses to passersby for 40 pesos each (about $3.50).  But when my mother asked the seller for a pack, he told her 50 pesos.  Using a hybrid of Italian, Spanish, and sign language, she asked why not 40.  Caught off guard that my mother had understood his sales pitch, the vendor gracefully accepted the 40 pesos.  All the other vendors in the area laughed at him because he had been called out by someone who clearly was not a local.

Once in Arrazola, we visited many Alebrije makers before finding just the right piece for the niche.

My father bought the bear in the foreground, but it is for his office, not the niche.  He also pulled a coin out of the boy's ear.

We found the Jimenez compound, where my parents previously had bought an Alebrije, but the piece they wanted continued to elude us.

At last, we found it.  The woman signing the bottom is the painter, and her husband is the carver.

The perfect Alebrije, in its new home in San Francisco.

Another adventure was to find one of the weaving factories we had heard are located in Oaxaca.  We went with Christi, the woman who cleans our house and who is now our friend.  On the way, we stopped at the Zócalo, in the center of town.  It was occupied by striking teachers.  (More on the strike in a future entry.)

Walking past teachers' tents near the Zócalo.

The subsequent trek to find the weaving factory turned into a bit of a forced march due to the heat and a route that mirrored Winnie the Pooh’s and Piglet’s hunt for a Heffalump.

Us.

Pooh and Piglet.

Finally we found the factory.  The weaving technique was similar to what we had seen in Teotitlán del Valle, the town where they make rugs (described here).  We were left to ponder why the family operations in Teotitlán seemed so idyllic, while the small factory with the same kind of looms resembled a sweatshop.  The few workers we spoke to in the factory, however, seemed happy with their jobs and proud of their work.

Weaving factory, with spectators.

That afternoon, we relaxed at the hotel with some of our friends from Mexico.  There was a soccer game we wanted to see.  We thought we would have to go inside to watch, but at one of our Mexican friend’s suggestion, we brought the TV from the hotel room out to the pool.

The TV is under the green umbrella on the right.

There were a couple of adventures the next day.  Our landlord/neighbors joined us for a trip to San Bartolo, which is famous for its shiny black pottery, and then on to Ocotlán, where Max really wanted to get a handmade knife.  Finding the ceramics was easy.

While waiting to meet the director of the San Bartolo crafts museum, who also is a potter, this dog guarded my parents.  He would not let anyone approach without baring his teeth.

We got a tour of the artist's studio, including this underground kiln. 

Black pottery.

Finding a knife maker was a little more difficult.  We had visited one of the local masters in Ocotlán before. For variety, this time we looked for a different one.  Here is how it unfolded.

We asked around until directed to this house.  The person who answered the door said his shop was "around the corner."

Around the corner was a field.

It was a big field.

Finally, we arrived at the workshop, where. . .

. . . the dads (not Max) bought knives.

Then we went back to the master knife maker we had visited before, where, over his grandfather's initial objection but eventual acquiescence, Max got a sword.

Those were some adventures that stand out, although there were others.  Also noteworthy is what my parents carried to Mexico.  Some were gifts for us, and others were things we had ordered for people down here.  A partial packing list:  magazines [three soccer magazines, People (royal wedding edition), Us, three New Yorkers, Esquire (one in English, one in Spanish), Vanity Fair, and Psychotherapy Networker (the last one ended up in our pile by mistake)]; four packages of Trader Joe’s salami; gummy bears; edamame; two chemical-free “Skeeter Plus” mosquito traps (that have yet to catch a mosquito); an iPad; earrings; four tee-shirts (A's, Raiders, Dodgers, Oaklandish); 30 San Francisco key chains and one Dallas Cowboys keychain; 15 San Francisco magnets; six folding shopping bags; styrofoam glider; drawing pad and colored pencils; and temporary tattoos.  That left an entire suitcase for us to fill with things to go home.  Since we intend to give much of what we sent as gifts, no inventory here.

But here is something interesting about the last item, the so-called temporary tattoos.  Helen put on several while my parents were here.

Two weeks later and the tattoos have not come off.  Not with soap, not with oil, not with scrubbing.  We were a little worried Helen's school would not let her be in the class picture with the tattoos, but fortunately her skirt just covered them.  --Harrison