Philly, I love you, but you're bringing me down

It's been a couple months since my last real post. Like me, my writerly ambitions got tired, took lots of naps, and indulged in the distractions of books, wine, and spending time with beautiful pregnant ladies. But now I am sitting in a sunny courtyard under an orange tree. Birds are chirping and a little turtle is munching lettuce. Behind our screen doors, Steve is getting to know himself in Spanish, inquiring about basic information in a steady, sincere tone: "¿Cuántos años tienes? ¿Tienes hijos?" And from the kitchen come waves of much more melodic Spanish as our hosts - the family that has owned this house and lived here for over 75 years - starts their Sunday. What better time to start blogging again?

I'm in Oaxaca as part of an NEH summer institute for teachers to study indigenous history and culture. Steve and I welcomed the escape from Philly. I was starting to feel about Philly the way LCD Soundsystem (or in this video, Kermit the Frog) feels about New York:

New York, I love you
But you’re freaking me out

There’s a ton of the twist
But we’re fresh out of shout . . .

New York, I love you
But you’re bringing me down

Like a death of the heart
Jesus, where do I start?

But you’re still the one pool
Where I’d happily drown

The end of the school year brought a variety of small heartbreaks. Two students, both fiercely intelligent young women very close to my heart, got into a fight outside my classroom, and one sent the other to the hospital. My zeal for school reform lost steam as I watched several of our best teachers lose their jobs to district-wide layoffs. And a hit-and-run driver ran over my step-dad’s leg while he was on a run in South Philly, confining him to a couch for most of the next 3 months. And of course Philadelphia’s oppressive humidity and accompanying clouds of trash-stink were the thick icing on this cake of rather demoralizing events.

Luckily, rather than “happily drown”, we had the opportunity to take off on a summer adventure. Oaxaca welcomed us with hot tlayudas (black beans and stringy salty cheese folded into giant crispy tortillas), cobbled pedestrian streets lined with ancient churches, and a lively, leafy zócalo bustling with families, couples, and surprisingly few foreign tourists. This city feels a lot safer than other cities I’ve visited – both in Latin America and in the States. The door to our house is left unlocked during the day as the courtyard is always full of people and pets. Last night, it seemed that everyone in the city came out to enjoy the Saturday evening festivities. People lined up to buy fresh potato chips at a street vender called Mr. Cara de Papa (Mr. Potato Face); groups of fourteen year-olds flirted on the steps of a church; children trotted along between their parents on their way to watch clowns performing in the zócalo; and old couples navigated the cobblestones with each other’s assistance. The doors of shops are always open to the street, offering glimpses of Oaxacan life - bright trophies on display, barbers giving haircuts, women flipping tortillas on hot comales, baskets of bread and fruit, gleaming coffins. Here, the weather is cool and dry, and teachers are shockingly empowered (they go on strike every school year). Although I know I’ll be happy to get back to my city after 4 weeks away, Oaxaca might be the perfect antidote to Philly.