It’s 72 and overcast today.
It’s 72 and overcast today. It threatens to rain a lot here in Oaxaca but never does, so it’s perfect weather for a walk.
I’m wearing a hoody because apparently my Swedish heritage is useless at keeping me warm. In this weather Montanans would look at me sideways as they sweated in their shorts and t-shirts.
But here in Mexico I’m with my people. Everyone wears sweatshirts on a cold day like today, deep in the heart of winter. One guy even wears a down vest over his sweatshirt, which I find particularly satisfying.
After the sun goes down the temperature plunges to a frigid 61 degrees. It’s enough that I trade my lightweight hoody for a mid-weight hoody.
We head into the night for another street food adventure. Off the main road the streets are dark but when we see ladies patting out tortillas we know we’re good. We plonk down on chairs set out in the dusty street and go to work on gorditas and taco dorados with guava agua frescas.
It’s all so good I literally moan as I’m shoving it in my mouth. Five minutes ago the tortillas were still ground corn. Two minutes ago they came out of the frier — a pot of oil over a charcoal fire. “Muy rico!” seems pathetically inadequate for this feast.
The ladies ask if I want another gordita. “Yo soy un gordito!” I answer and they laugh and nod with grace at the big gringo who talks like a toddler.
On our way back June stops for flowers. Everyone at the stand is wearing a big down parka. I check my phone — it’s still 61 Fahrenheit. I feel right at home.
