LOST IN OAXACA (Part 2)

PART 2 - Festival Daze

I’m lost. After waking up early and having a freshly made breakfast at my hotel I’ve grabbed my bag and ventured out into the streets of Oaxaca. I have a hand drawn map and few directions involving landmarks that are “impossible to miss.” Plus, I’ve left an hour early for an interview with a local news outlet, for what should be a 15 minute walk.

First, I headed North (when I should have headed South). I reached the top of the hill and turned left, it wasn’t long before this road turned into a highway, and I knew I had made a wrong turn. So, I turned around with a smile and headed the other direction. I really don’t mind being lost, especially in a foreign country on a beautiful day (such as this was). That street slowly became less and less business oriented, and I knew that the library was supposed to be in a very bustling part of town. Plus, I hadn’t seen this impossible-to-miss cathedral yet. So, I headed back the way I came, down South, past my hotel and down the hill into unexplored territory. Upon reaching the bottom I knew I was on the right track. I saw many cathedrals (I was in Mexico, remember), but none I would consider impossible-to-miss. Until I reached the Catedral de Oaxaca (pictured). 

Now this was an impossible-to-miss cathedral. Absolutely gorgeous, settled in the middle of a large park where there were restaurants, a little marketplace, live performers, the works. I still had half an hour, and the library was only a few blocks away. Granted, nobody knew exactly where the library was, or really recognized the street name on the address I’d been sent, but everyone assured me it was only a block from the cathedral, so I was confident that I would find it soon.

I spiraled out, exploring a one block radius from the cathedral. Nothing. Then a two block radius, still no luck. The interview was in 10 minutes. I saw someone at a Visitor Information booth, so I decided to check in with them. They didn’t speak English. I still didn’t speak Spanish. It was clear by the look on his face that he had no idea where the library was, but he gave me directions nonetheless. Another game of charades, several points (in the wrong direction) combined with “allí... that way” and I was off. 45 minutes later I found the library. I was a half hour late, the person I was scheduled to meet was long gone. My film was scheduled to screen in 3 hours, so I figured I’d better start walking now.

I continued walking up what appeared to be a main street. This was an excellent choice as the street was adorned with several skull floats still on display from Dia de los Muertos (which was only a few days prior to my arrival). These are few of my favorites:

 I was only equipped with the camera on my phone, so forgive the semi-bush league quality of them...

That main street also passed Santa Domingo de Gúzman Church (pictured at the very, very bottom). In the plaza around Santa Domingo I noticed two attractive Mexican women holding folders emblazoned with the Mexican tourism logo that I see all over billboards in LA. I further noticed that one of them seemed to be instructing the other, like you would look when training a new employee. This appeared to be my best shot for real directions to the festival headquarters, and even if they didn’t know the way, it was my best shot to chat with two cute girls for the next 30 seconds, so I went for it.

I asked if they habla’d ingles, which they did. They didn’t recognize the name or address immediately, but realization suddenly crossed the face of the girl in charge and she asked me, “the cinema?” Yes, yes! The cinema. I then got the best directions I’d received so far in Oaxaca (and the best I would receive for the rest of my trip). “Two blocks that way, then take a... right? left? uh, derecha... sí, derecha. That way... then 2 more blocks.” I was confident that “derecha” meant right, and they had certainly gestured to the right, so I walked off with confidence. To my relief they gave perfect directions and I found the theatre without further issue.

(Here's a picture of the Festival HQ. If you look closely you can see a white poster in the upper right corner. That's the "Chronicles" poster. There's another behind the dude in the poncho, but it's kinda tough to see)

I met more of the festival staff, Jessica and Ana, who were both awesome. As well as seeing Paulette and Enrrico again. Enricco asked how my interview went... I changed the subject. The festival staff in Oaxaca were always nice and extremely helpful. As much as I appreciated our Guide in Spain giving us the low down on where all the transvestites and whores hung out, the staff in Oaxaca actually told us about the festival and what events were planned. Apparently, there was another Michael flying in that evening, hence the slight confusion yesterday about my arrival.

They told me about a festival get-together that night at a bar and asked if I would attend. Of course I would.  To which Jessica replied, “Excellent. I’ll let our festival director know you’re coming. He really wants to meet you.”

This caught me off guard. I’m not used to feeling flattered. Everyone was very busy on this first day of the festival and I wanted to stay out of their way, so I purchased a ticket to the first film and hunkered down in the auditorium. I didn’t enjoy the film very much, or the short that played before it, so I’ll do the nice thing and not mention their titles. This turned out to be an isolated incident, as I very much enjoyed every other film I saw at the festival.

My film was in the second round of films that day and I watched silently as a small group of movie-goers shuffled into their seats, including my new friends and travel mates from France. The audience was comparable in size to the one in Spain. Not huge, but enough to be content with. I didn’t have nearly the problem with my nerves that I did when I was in Spain, and lounged comfortably in the back of the auditorium until Ana tapped me on the shoulder and asked if I wanted to say a few words before the screening.

I said I would, although those sorts of things always make me uncomfortable. I prefer the film to just speak for itself, and if there’s questions afterwards I’m more than happy to discuss them over a beer. Of course the first words out of my mouth were, “Lo siento. No hablo Español...” And then I proceeded to rattle of 50% of my introduction in Spanish, despite just apologizing for not speaking it. A sort of 50-50 mix such as, “la pelicula... uh, screened... en un festival en España... uh, last month.” I’m sure I looked about as foolish as I felt, but I tried to say as much in Spanish as I could. It’s the little things that count. I’d rather people think I was a fool than think I was too arrogant to even try.

The screening went well, and everyone seemed to enjoy the film. I spoke briefly to the French filmmakers, who liked it. I was happy and decided to head back to my hotel to grab a jacket as night (and the desert cold) were settling in.

After an hour of walking up and down every street in Oaxaca I gave up on finding my hotel and went back to the festival headquarters to get dinner near there. I did pass the bar where everyone was meeting later that night, so hopefully I wouldn’t get lost a third time that night.

I sat down by myself, in the small café that the festival had provided meal coupons for. The movie ticket purchase had put a noticable dent in my remaining $32, although it was hard to tell exactly how much since I had converted all my holdings into pesos. Really I think they were only $4, but still that’s an eighth of my budget and I was growing thirsty. The bottle of wine at the table across from me caught my eye, but I figured it would be wise to hold onto my drinking money until later.

Luckily for me, the table was occupied by a few retired ex-pats and a documentary filmmaker who, seeing I was alone, invited me to join them and share in their wine. A fantastic conversation ensued, reminding me why I love festivals. Meeting new people is always one of the adventurous perks of travelling alone and I usually get along well with people twice my age. The retired couple had moved to Mexico a few years ago and sang the praises of Oaxaca as one of Mexico’s last bastions of Mexican cultural. “No McDonald’s as far as the eye can see,” the man said with a smile. His wife didn’t care much for Wal-Mart but admitted that they were much better to their employees here than in the States. In fact, a friend of hers had quit his job as a policeman and “actually gets paid MORE working at Wal-Mart.” The couples’ crotchety travelling companion grumbled something about that being “part of the problem up North.” I thought the conversation was about to start heading towards drug cartels and all the murders happening in Mexico, but thankfully it changed to the subject of filmmaking, and in particular my film.

They were very interested in it, and regretted that they missed the only screening. We finished our meals and I headed back to the Festival HQ to get the exact address of my hotel. Cross-referencing with a map I realize that I had given up just 2 blocks away from where my hotel was and quickly walked back to grab my coat and take a quick nap before going out for the evening.

Like a good drinker, I was the first to arrive, and Jessica ordered me a mezcal, which I’d never had and were very popular in Oaxaca. Like tequila, it game from the agave plant but was made in charred barrels, so it had a very smoky taste. Needless to say, I was a fan. Since I was drinking on a budget, mezcal seemed more efficient than beer. I’d have to be sure to sip very slowly. The bar slowly filled up, I met the other Michael (who had just flown into town from London), a huge group of Mexican filmmakers, actors and supporters, and a few volunteers who blushed and whispered to one another when I told them which film I directed. Apparently, my film had gotten quite a reputation among the volunteers. One volunteer, the lovely Maria, immediately recognized the title’s homage to Gabriel Garcia Marquez’s novella “Chronicle of a Death Foretold”. A connection which, surprisingly, very few people pick up on.

I had the pleasure of meeting the festival director, Ramiz Adeeb Azar, who told me how much he loved my film and was very glad that I was able to make it down to the festival. Ramiz was an intriguing guy, very charismatic and clearly passionate about cinema and the success of this first festival in Oaxaca. He had also founded a literature festival (or perhaps it was a literature contest) earlier that year. Despite money troubles, airport confusion and hours of walking aimlessly through Oaxaca I was very glad to be here at this moment. Even more so a couple hours later when Ramiz asked if I wanted to add another screening of my film. Turns out someone did not deliver their film in time and so Sunday night I could screen the film a second time. I jumped at the chance, and quickly told everyone at the bar (most of whom had just gotten to town and so missed the first screening) that they had one more chance to see the film. I would be sitting in the Mexico City airport when the film showed a second time, but whatever. As long as more people get to see it, I’m happy.

So with a belly full of mescal and head filled with optimism I walked back to my hotel, and managed to only walk about 7 blocks out of the way before finding it. This time I wasn't lost... just taking the scenic route.

Santa Domingo

LOST IN OAXACA (Part 1)

LOST IN OAXACA

Part 1 - The Arrival

Okay, so I know it’s been over a month since I was in Oaxaca, but as I’ve said many, many times before: I’m a terrible blogger. You ever wonder how celebrities find the time to constantly update their twitters and websites? They don’t. Their assistants do. Which reminds me, I’m looking to hire a personal assistant. Must be able to remember peoples’ birthdays and be willing to work for free. In fact, you’ll probably have to get another job, so you’ll be really busy. It should be a good learning experience.

Where was I? Oh yes. Oaxaca.

It’s been a while, so I’ll have to refer to the travel journal for most of this.

--

I’m broke, but I’m going to Oaxaca anyway. I was supposed to have a fair amount of walking around money, but then my phone got disconnected. Combined with a few other easily forgettable financial responsibilities and I find myself boarding the flight with approximately $37.12 to my name. Can I get by for three days in Mexico on $37? Probably. If nothing else it will be fun to try.

The flight to Mexico City goes well, but it’s not until our arrival that I realize I’ve booked myself a five hour layover. I wasn’t really looking at the in between times when I bought the tickets, just prices. This explains how I was able to get such a deal. I’m immediately confused when venturing through the airport, which is a bit sad because all of the signs have English translations. But the layout of the Mexico City airport is disorienting and I immediately feel like a bumbling American tourist. But, true to form, I follow the flow of people, quickly get through customs and find myself at a crossroads. The flow has moved onto baggage claim, but I only have my one rolling carry-on. A security guard sees me inspecting the signs with a perplexed look and offers to help. He doesn’t speak English. I don't speak Spanish. Well, I have some residual vocabulary from high school and living in Los Angeles. I know how to say “ticket” (boleto) and can Spanglish my way through “reservation” (reservación) but I'm not too sure how to say “boarding pass.”

We play a quick game of charades before I show him my itinerary and he points me towards Aeromexico. Soon I am walking up and down the terminal, on numerous floor, going in circles, squares and figure-eights, but I find nothing. I'm completely lost and I've been in the country for about 20 minutes. Finally I see a station where you can purchase Aeromexico tickets and head that way for help.

I stand in line, holding my itinerary, and must have looked very confused again because yet another guard approaches to help me. He also does not speak English. I still don't speak Spanish. Another game of charades ensues until I mutter the magic words, “check in,” and he nods his head in understanding. He points his fingers in a multitude of directions and I manage to catch “Door 6 ... downstairs ... Terminal 2” A-HA! There’s a second terminal! At this point, I’m glad that I booked such a long layover. At this rate, I’ll barely make it to my flight on time.

I’m contemplating how much more friendly airport security is in Mexico (versus The States) when I reach Door 6 and realize that there are no stairs going down. Hm... Interesante.  I double check the exterior and interior, still nothing. There are stairs going up, however. Perhaps that is what he meant. I know that I have confused “aquí” and “allí” more times than I care to count (here vs. there, a timeless question). I’ve already been upstairs, but never with the additional information of “Door 6” and “Terminal 2,” so I give it a try.

At the top of the stairs, there appears to be some sort of walkway. This looks promising, I double-check the signs with my usual perplexed look and yet another person approaches me. “¿Aeromexico?” He asks.

“Si.” 

And with the single word, we’re off. Quick like a bunny, he grabs my luggage by the handle and starts rolling it down the hallway. Shit. Something tells me my $37 is in jeopardy. He rolls right past security, I have to show them my boarding pass to prove that I am going to Aeromexico. The guard looks at me like I’m a complete idiot, and very soon I will know why. As we round the corner the man with my bag sputters out  some broken English, all I can make out is “my tip... one dollar... ten dollars... is okay.” All I have on me is $5 and I’d intended to hold onto that until I was back in The States. Perhaps a small gas money bribery for anyone willing to pick me up. We stop at the door to a tram, which takes me to Terminal 2, and he holds out his hand. Now I know why the guard looked at me with such disdain; I paid 5 bucks for someone to escort me 20 feet. But, it's the only cash I have on me and he did help me find Terminal 2, so now I’m down to $32.12. But, on the bright side I’m no longer lost... For now.

I check in, there are no earlier flights to Oaxaca, so I hunker down near a laptop charging station, pull out my leather-bound travel journal and transcribe Parts 3 & 4 of “The Spanish Pages”. On top of the several hours scheduled in the Mexico City airport, my flight has also been delayed 30minutes. A few more points of interest are that I have no idea what hotel I’m staying at, how I get from the Oaxaca airport to the festival, or if anyone will still be at the festival headquarters when I arrive. I'm coming into town quite late and have emailed Paulette, the Hospitality Coordinator, so she knows when I’m arriving (and that the flight is late), but have not heard back yet. In fact, the only email I'd gotten from her that day seemed to relay a bit of confusion as to whether I was arriving today or tomorrow. For some this would be stressful. For me, not so much. I’m here, that’s what counts. I’ll figure it out sooner or later.

Finally they call to board and everyone waiting for Oaxaca (and a few other flights) shuffle downstairs into another waiting room. We’re systematically divided based on destination, the Oaxaca bound travelers asked to sit off to the side while those headed for other cities are herded down a mysterious hallway. Soon enough it is our turn and everyone heads outside and are loaded onto a bus... Wait... A bus? Seriously? I cannot help but think that I’ve just been bamboozled into waiting five or more hours in the Mexico City airport to catch a bus to Oaxaca. I check my itinierary and it definitely says flight. Granted I’ve gone through several stages of confusion since arriving in Mexico City, and everyone seems fine with what’s happening, so I climb aboard and grab a seat. Turns out, the bus was simply driving us around to another part of the airport where we boarded the tiny little plane headed for Oaxaca. I love these little planes. They don’t handle turbulence well, but they fly low enough that you get to see land the entire flight. It was night, so I couldn’t make out much except for an occasional smattering of lights, but I stared out the window nonetheless and tried to guess what I was flying over. I had a window seat and an aisle seat, another benefit of tiny planes.

Upon landing I was greeted by a huge banner for the film festival strung across the front of the airport. These immediately brought my spirits up as I followed the crowd under the banner and inside the tiny airport. I waited for my bag (As previously mentioned, I didn’t check luggage, but the tiny plane had no overhead compartments, so my little rolley guy got stowed under the plane for our flight to Oaxaca) and after a quick assessment of clothing and body language figured out that the four French travelers beside me were also here for the festival. It’s usually easy to spot a filmmaker if you know what to look for. Scarves can be a dead giveaway, so can turtlenecks. In this case I saw a scarf, two turtle necks and a beautiful blonde woman. I guessed director, two producers and an actress. I was 75% correct. The same could be said for my attire, wearing a hoodie under my corduroy jacket (the "filmmaker uniform" is what my friend Jeremy calls it). Plus, in an airport full of people with little iPod earbuds I was the only one with huge black headphones wrapped around my neck. I was either a filmmaker or a DJ.

Paulette and Enrrico (Hospitality and Film Traffic, respectively) were at the airport waiting to receive us. They each had specific job titles, but it was clear that the small army of organizers at this festival wore many hats. Already I was much more impressed with the organization of this festival than the one in Spain. We all jumped into a van, the three representatives of the festival crammed in the front three of the French filmmakers crammed in the back (producer, actress and SOUND DESIGNER to be precise). The director of the French film, Eric Atlan, beside me. Ahead there was a flurry of Español mixed with short bursts of laughter. The same was going on behind me, but in Fraçais. Obviously, I didn’t understand a single word, or any of the jokes, but instinctually smiled whenever one group burst into laughter. Despite a small language barrier, I spoke to Eric a little. His film was called Mortem (http://www.ericatlan.org/#/mortem) but, much like the guards at the airport, or conversation was a mixture of fragment sentences and charades, plus we were both exhausted from a long day of travel. For most of the drive we sat in peaceful silence.

We dropped off the group at their hotel, and I chatted with Enrrico on the way to my hotel (which was nearby). He was an aspiring filmmaker himself, but the conversation didn’t get too far before we reached my hotel. I got directions to a library where I had scheduled an interview for the next day, bid my hosts goodnight and settled in. I was sure to set my alarm for extra early just in case I got lost tomorrow morning on the way to my interview.

As I would soon learn walking through the streets of Oaxaca, I should have set it for much, much earlier.