Magic

I met a native of Mexico City. He told me he had given up everything to live in Oaxaca. “I can’t leave,” he said. “It’s a magical place.

On a flight from the City, I looked out the window while the plane banked over Monte Alban. It was early morning. The sun’s rays illuminated the ruins atop the mountain. Tears streamed down my face. My seatmate was a man in his late 20’s from Acapulco who installed telephone lines throughout Oaxaca. Taking pity on me, he leaned over and patted my hand. “If you never return, Oaxaca will always remain in your heart. It is in my heart. I meditate at Yagul and Monte Alban. I feel the antiquity and the sacredness. My heart is here.

A young Australian woman employed at a Mexican resort stopped me in the City. “I can’t stay away!” she exclaimed. “Every cent I earn, I spend. Not on clothes, not on anything tangible. I spend it on trips to Oaxaca. Oaxaca is the air I breathe.”

At the hotel where I was staying, a woman from Virginia joined me for coffee. She was in Oaxaca, because a friend had recommended it. Her friend had told her that wishes came true in Oaxaca.

“I’ve always wanted to go to Greece, but I can’t afford the trip,” the woman complained as she sat down beside me for conversation and a last cup of breakfast coffee. Later that evening, she rushed to my dinner table. “Guess what happened today?” she cried flinging herself in a chair. I listened.

She was shopping and met an American couple. The wife suddenly said, “If you would like to go to Greece, we have a house on one of the islands. It is yours to enjoy. Here is my address; let me know when you would like to go.”

The husband turned to his wife. “You’ve never offered our home in Greece to anyone. Why now?”

“I don’t know,” she replied. “Something came over me.”

A man hailed me one day in late fall when the sun was setting, and the streets were redolent with the scent of gardenias from the corsages the gardenia sellers carried on the wide brims of their hats. “What a perfume! Are you an American?” he inquired. Delighted to meet a fellow countryman, he proceeded to extol the charms of the City.

“What am I doing here?” he asked rhetorically. “I don’t know. I only know that it is imperative that I return again and again. There is something in the air. My wife was sick. I kept praying that she would be well. When I arrived home after my last trip, I found her in perfect health.

“Tell me,” he urged, “what goes on here?”

I know what they mean. I, too, feel the magic. Perhaps it is the altitude, perhaps the echoes of the Ancient Ones. All I know is that within 24 hours after I deplane, my mind quiets. It becomes empty and peaceful. I enter a meditative state. I have learned to be careful of what I wish for when I am in Oaxaca, because sooner or later my wish comes true.

Jose, a worker from Argentina spoke, “I am lost without Oaxaca. I have been here four times. Each time something special happens to lure me back. I am in love.”

“In love with the City or with an individual?” I inquired.

“In love with the City. I come to paint. I paint the same thing at different times of the day and at different times of the year. I can’t stop. It is an obsession.”

“Do you exhibit?”

“Yes,” he said, “but the only paintings that sell are the ones I paint in Oaxaca.”

An expatriate sat down beside me while I was lingering over a coffee in the zocalo. We exchanged where we were from. “I usually don’t talk to Americans,” he confided. “but there is something about you. Something that tells me that you are in love with Oaxaca as much as I am. Are you?”

“Yes, I can’t seem to stop coming here. What is it that attracts us?”

“Don’t’ ask me,” he answered. “I’ve lived in the City for five years. I have yet to discover why. There are so many places in the world, but I needed to live here. I missed Oaxaca so much that I sold my possessions and came.”

“How do you spend your days?”

“I visit the markets. I take buses to local towns. I have made friends. I am happy. I am content.”

I approached a sales clerk in a dress shop. She was leaning against a counter and staring into space. She was from Texas. She revealed that she also had been bitten by the Oaxaca bug. She and her boyfriend sold everything. Left parents and friends and moved down. They brought nothing. They rented an apartment.

“What do you do?” I asked.

“I sit in the zocalo. I work at this job. We meet friends and go to the country.”

“Are you happy?”

“I have never been happier,” she answered. “I don’t want to go back. This is our home now. Even if Ivan left me, I would stay. It is bliss.

“Yes,” I agree, “Oaxaca is bliss.”