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.

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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.