What Possessed Me

Tagtastic

Lex in the City tagged me for a photo meme, which is good because otherwise I'd be posting YouTube videos of dramatic chipmunks. This is what my life has come to.

The rules of this meme are that you are supposed to go to your fourth picture folder, pick out the fourth picture, and then describe it. Well, I did that and it turned out that the picture was inappropriate. Not inappropriate as in "P. wearing nothing but a vest of sausages" but inappropriate as in "someone's precious baby and who knows what unspeakable things people with baby pictures on the web I've heard some really creepy stories." So I cheated - in the name of decency - and picked the fifth folder and the fifth picture. I hope the internets will forgive me.



Anyway, this is a picture of The Day of the Dead in Oaxaca, during my road trip to Mexico. You can read about our antics by typing "road trip" into the search area above). While Fauxhawk was suffering from an extreme bout of "don't go in there," his friend Loverboy and I visited a series of cemeteries to honor los muertos.

What we thought would be a very grave (forgive the pun) and mournful experience turned out to be something like the best dinner party we've ever been invited to. Everywhere we went, free shots of mezcal (poison), music, flowers, and families eating and chatting happily around the tombs. Here is a not-very-good-bonus-shot to give you an idea:



We both thought that this was a very sensible way to handle death - so unlike my own (Greek) culture, which is all about wailing and wearing black until the end of time.


I hereby tag the following four prestigious online publications to carry out the memeage:

Debi van Zyl
Freckle Farm
popbaroque
Woodley Park-Zoo

P.S. I am adding another blog because that's how I roll: Good Mouse, Bad Mouse. Love this girl.

Road Trip: Oaxaca (and " Hello crazy! " )

While Loverboy is sleeping and Fauxhawk is comatose from the wrath of Montezuma, I sneak out for a bit to stalk the flower ladies. The streets of Oaxaca are full of flowers to decorate graves and erect shrines for Day of the Dead, and the effect is vibrant and beautiful.

"Hello!" I say to the flower ladies. "Can I take a picture of you?"
"No."
"But you're so pretty!"

They ignore me. I am obviously not a customer, and these ladies are all business.

"What about a picture of your flowers?"
"No."



This is a familiar tune. I skulk off feeling slightly dejected and find a more willing victim.



This guy didn't seem to mind either. Thank goodness tequila was on my side.



I wander around the market and stop at a busy corner. People are crowding the table - whatever it is that's on sale is in high demand. All of a sudden, a woman is feeding me something, and I open my mouth obediently.

A cricket. Or a grasshopper? A grasshopper fried in chili and lime. Not bad, actually, though when I see the pile of bugs, I feel a bit queasy.



Later that day, I walk by the flower ladies several times. They eye me suspiciously. The other vendors find this vaguely amusing - the gringa who is acting like a pimply, lovelorn boy rejected by the object of his affection.

I pretend to drop something under a cart, climb under, and take a few surreptitious shots. I allow myself a brief moment of delusion. This is totally what photojournalists must feel like when they're on assignment, I think to myself. Except without the bombs and flak jackets and danger. But otherwise it's totally the same thing.



An old man looks under the cart and finds me crouching with my camera.

"Hello crazy!" he says cheerfully.



It is then that I channel the immortal words of Will.i.am:

Crazy is as crazy do.



I knew that would come in handy at some point.

Road Trip: Oaxaca (and the nut seller)

Fauxhawk feels well enough to go for a little stroll, so Loverboy and I lead him around Oaxaca as though it’s our home town. “This is the place we like to eat breakfast…isn’t this square wonderful? I want to show you this shop…”

We pass a woman selling nuts. Her hair is braided and bound with ribbon in the dainty way I’ve seen it worn all over Mexico. We walk by, and I instantly regret not stopping.

“I’m going to go talk to that woman,” I tell the boys. “I’ll catch up.”

Loverboy looks at me skeptically. “Good luck. She looks mean.”

That’s exactly what I like about her. She looks like she has a salty sense of humor and a highly refined bullshit detector.

“Hola, mi amiga.” Slightly bold, since we have not been formally introduced.

“Buenas tardes.” Barely a look in my direction.

“Your hair is beautiful. Will you show me how you do it?”

“My hair?”

“Yes, I like your…” I don’t know the word for braids in Spanish. But I touch her hair gently, reaching across the pile of nuts.

She unfastens her braids and they tumble down her back, past her waist. She shows me how she winds the ribbon around her hair and how she twists the braids together on top of her head. The entire process takes about a minute.

“Do you want me to do your hair?” she asks. I do, but I think of the boys waiting on the corner, so I tell her I will be back when my braids are longer.

Finally, I summon the courage to ask for her photograph. No one here likes to be photographed; I have been shot down so many times that I am almost too shy to ask.

“No,” she says firmly.

“But why not? I want to remember your hair…” She looks at her pile of nuts and considers the situation.

“You have such a nice face…” I coax.

The nut seller’s eyes roll back into her head. Her smirk suggests an intention to bust my balls as long as possible.

“What if I buy a bag of nuts? Or two?”

“OK. Good.” She names an exorbitant price and I pay it.

We take a few snaps. The nut seller shifts uncomfortably on her little perch.

“OYE, GUAPA!” someone on a motorcycle calls out. Hello, beautiful! Her face lights up with pride.



Finally, a smile.