Many years ago when I was frequently wandering from place to place, from country to country, I thought I might become a travel writer. I carried many notebooks and pens and practiced describing whatever I saw. Most of what I described was people – people I met along the way. On buses, on unfamiliar crowded streets, in shuks and markets and trains. Seeing people is the main reason for me to do more or less anything – my personal mecca and medina.
Then I took a travel writing class. For the class, I wrote pieces about the places I’d been – Jerusalem, Chiapas, a long bus ride to Guatemala. The teacher, a man named Joe, explained what was wrong with them (where were the Places of Interest? People of Interest was not his thing) and for many years later, though I continued to travel, I didn’t write much of anything.
Now though, primarily for reasons of age, I feel free to describe this trip to Mexico in any way I want, and again I find myself, as always, drawn to people.
Locals, transplants, many people along the way.
One odd thing about my travels all these years. I’ve always met Jews along the way.
We saw Oaxaca through the eyes of a friend of a friend, a woman named Amy, 80 now, who has been coming to Oaxaca since she was 13. Amy grew up in Brooklyn. Her father had a friend from Salonika who loved Oaxaca. So Amy, a child of 13, went to camp in Oaxaca every year, and completely fell in love. She learned Spanish very young, and became involved, for a lifetime with the hundreds of families in the nearby villages who have perfected their crafts for many generations: painters, rug weavers, ceramicists, textile artists. We were lucky to see Oaxaca with Amy and her husband Mike. We told each other something about the lives we’ve all lived, and Amy, a secular Jew with a husband from Wisconsin, said her son and her first husband both became religious. Her son, happily married, has nine children now. Amy loves them all.
Peter and I were both taken aback when Pearl, a complete stranger who lives in Vancouver stopped us on the street to introduce herself, then ask if I had read Apeirigon, a long Israeli Palestinian story by Column McCann. When I said yes, she wanted to know what I thought. It was way too long I said. It needed an editor. She didn’t like that, and walked away.
In San Miguel, a very beautiful heritage town where many ex-pats live, we rented an Airbnb
from a woman I’d met before named Maxine. She’s half-Jewish, half-Armenian. Maxine has lived here and in San Diego for 33 years. One of her best friends, Natalie, joined us one nightfor dinner. Natalie,a tall beautiful Catholic blond from South Bend, Indiana, told us that in high school 60 years ago she became engaged to Bob, one of five sons of an Orthodox Jewish family. Bob’s family hated Natalie so she broke off the engagement. Now though they’re meeting for lunch. Who knows she said.
My travel writing teacher Joe did not want to be entirely discouraging.
Maybe you could become a painter he said.
Love to all
Esther
PS See you at Peter’s movie next weekend
MY 2020 Saturday February 25 7:00 pm
Bnai Keshet, 99 South Fullerton Avenue, Montclair. Admission is free. There will be a wine and cheese reception. And Peter will be there to answer questions and to talk about the movie. Check out the trailer https://www.pjofilms.com/gallery.
I was in Oaxaca for a month or so in 1970, living on short rations ,eating from the market stalls. One day I came across an indigenous-looking woman serving knishes . Exact knishes--no kasha, but unmistakably, knishes. I later read that there was a 17th (?) century Jewish community in that region. Does anyone here know about them?
You are a poet of people. You harvest their stories. What a wonderful purpose!