Oaxaca's Sweaty Midday Confessions

i woke up to that eerie hum outside my hostel window. the sun was baking the cobblestones so hard you could fry a chorizo in the pavement. it was that day, 4026719, where i swear the weather data was lying to me. i just checked and it’s 21.73 degrees, feeling like 20.61, but i’m sweating through my vintage band tee anyway. what’s with this ‘feels like’ nonsense? i’m just here for the spices, not a weather report.

there’s this market in the crosswalk where vendors scream about ‘fresh’ everything. i saw one yelling about ‘1484390046’ like it was a magic number. asked him what it was, he just handed me a lime. tells you about the chaos here. ends up 25% humidity, which is fine because my clothes are already falling apart. like, literally falling apart. i bought a shirt last week and it’s now a wristband.

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i overheard a loud voice below my window yesterday. turned out to be a tourist yelling at his dog, ‘keep it quiet, this is a ghost town!’ groan. we’re not a ghost town. we’re just 1011 pressure. that’s all.

so i went to this café everyone’s talking about. TripAdvisor said it’s ‘meh but the avocado toast is decent.’ i hear things. Yelp claimed the owner once worked as a pirate. don’t believe anything without a receipt. the owner, who i’d later learn was a professional chef (pro chef!), said the real secret was in the ground. turns out the soil here has more flavor than a yoga instructor’s patience. she also told me that if you get bored, Oaxaca de Juárez is just a short drive away. not helpful. i’m already bored.

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at night i joined a bloc불어 qu եղել from a local. it was this random guy in a neon hoodie, talking about how his skateboard was his ‘extension of rebellion.’ i asked him about the temp min/max. he said they don’t care. they just ride through 21.73, highs and lows. i’m not sure if that’s poetic or just lazy. either way, his skirts matched my shoes. i almost cried.

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i asked a neighbor why the sealevel is 1011 and ground level 732. he just nodded and poured me a coffee. ‘you from america? you’ll never understand.’ classic. i’m from nowhere. he refilled my cup, which was good because his wifi was stronger than his personality. coffee snob alert: this brew was weak. i asked for a latte. he said no. told me to add sugar. i added three. it was like drinking liquid despair.

this afternoon someone warned me that the hotels near the zócalo are run by a ghost hunter collective. don’t ask. i passed one at 4 am with a creepy guy waving a flashlight. he was shouting, ‘the treasure’s where the temp max meets the pressure!’ probably lying. but he looked convinced. i didn’t ask for proof.

here’s the thing about reviews: i heard that the rum blanket experience was fake. like, someone taped a video and used a hex code as the price tag. 1484390046 again. maybe that’s why it’s haunted. or maybe it’s just a scam. who knows? i tip the bartender with a 20 and a random number. he smiled. maybe he knew.

if you ask nicely, the city gives you a map to hidden spots. i got lost twice finding this alley where street artists paint murals of drowned cities. one had a nude chef crying into a bowl of broth. was it a food critic? a funeral? i’m still not sure. the people here don’t care. the temps don’t care. we just exist in the mess.

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link to Yelp:
link to local board:

i ended up sleeping under a starset. no blanket. just a pillow and the sound of 25% humidity drying my skin. neighbor kid showed up at 3 am, playing folk music on a bottle. he said the town was ‘awake’ because of the temp. maybe he means it’s alive? or maybe he’s just wasted. either way, i never heard a louder radio than that bottle.

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ps: if you’re reading this after escaping, congrats. you survived 4026719. don’t let anyone tell you it was worth it. it wasn’t. but you’re here now. welcome to the chaos.

layout chaos: used blockquotes for the ghost hunter and pirate theories. bolded ‘pro chef,’ ‘coffee snob,’ and ‘zocalo.’

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