Bienvenidos.
La Popular. We had not fully arrived in Oaxaca until we stepped outside this corner restaurant. With as much patience as we could muster after 10 hours of traveling from the US, Karl and I stood behind the restaurant’s velvet rope, more a nod to Mexican humor than an actual border. A waitress ventured over, slipping between the bustling tables all regally laden with Coronas and Victorias. She informed us that it would be at least 20 minutes to sit down, and that we could head over to their sister restaurant if we did not feel like waiting. Without needing to consult one another, we told her we would wait – we didn’t come all this way to settle for second. Within five minutes, the waitress returned, telling us that a couple sitting at a four top had said they were happy to share their table with us. The velvet rope parted, and we sat down.
We said hello to the couple, a jovial husband and wife both from Oaxaca, thanking them for sharing their table.
We didn’t get up for four hours.
What started as friendly small talk turned into a full-fledged dinner party, from the couple recommending and sharing their favorite dish (ceviche cenizo, ceviche with an “ash sauce”), splitting pan de elote four ways for dessert, and of course, the thread throughout the entire meal was mezcal. A passion fruit mezcalito was ordered for me, a mezcal for Karl. Despite this being our fourth visit to Oaxaca, I had never ordered it, always preferring to stick to my red wine lane.
Here our schooling in mezcal etiquette began. First rule: one never declines.
Everyone appropriately armed with drinks, the conversation took flight. The questions arrived rapidly: Why were we here? Where did we live? And wait – we had lived on a sailboat? The mezcal softened any typical stranger boundaries. Topics widely ranged. Travel adventures (he had a penchant for visiting Hard Rock Cafes in different countries). Oaxacan dishes we shouldn’t miss. Mexican cops. Our respective families. The fact that she had the same last name as an infamous Mexican cartel leader, which had caused significant (false) alarm when she started dating her now husband.
My mezcalito was sweating on the table. I stirred the quickly disappearing ice, which was losing its battle against the warm Oaxacan afternoon. I allowed myself a small break; nobody was pressuring me to contribute. In my years of being the only gringa at the table, I have found an automatic courtesy exists for non-native speakers: we are permitted to take a time-out of a conversation to recharge a fatigued mind. For an introvert such as myself, this is critical. But it’s not as if I’m completely off the air. It’s from these brief intermissions that I learn. I observe body language and intonation, understanding when to laugh, and to lean in for the punchline. Stories unfold not only in words but in gestures and expressions, so I watch as much as I listen. And I listen more than I speak. Because it is in these reflective moments that small customs are revealed, if one is patient.
Tortillas arrived at the table, steaming hot, cradled in a towel to preserve their warmth. I typically wouldn’t have thought twice about taking a full tortilla, unskillfully trying to balance it on the side of my plate. But our friends would tear one in half, either offering it to someone else at the table or returning the remainder to its cozy nest, ensuring that each bite, whether for you or your companions, was one enveloped by warm corn. Karl and I quickly adapted the same pattern.
The conversation had not lost steam, our travel weariness cast aside for the time being. But at some point, well after the sun had set, we wordlessly smiled at one another and called the waitress over for the check. The couple had already invited us to a family barbeque that weekend. The conversation would continue.
Karl and I returned to our AirBnB blissfully unsure of what had just happened. We had chosen to come to Mexico, and specifically Oaxaca, in hopes of pulling back the superficial layers we had already experienced during our past trips, wondering what else it had to say to us. I had to acknowledge the openhearted message we had received that evening. Karl was already asleep, the long travel and dinner (and mezcal) finally taking hold. I reached for the light, and in a stillness that is quite rare in Oaxacan neighborhoods, I whispered “Okay, Mexico. We’re listening.”
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