Oaxaca is a different place. This is old Mexico, pre-Spanish, home of ancient Monte Alban which rivaled any continental city of its era. Modernity nibbles at Oaxaca's edges, but the character of the people prevents it from taking bigger bites.
What beautiful souls these Oaxacans are! Economically, Oaxaca is Mexico's poorest state, but I didn't see a single homeless person while I was there. I watched children giving coins to beggars. I was never greeted with anything less than a friendly smile, including by a pre-teen schoolgirl who was delighted that I spoke English and was eager to practice hers with me. If this is poor, then world should be so poor.
Despite being fastidiously clean, Oaxaca is a graffiti'd place, only the graffiti isn't the scrawled tags that deface highway signs and the sides of buildings here in Seattle, it's colorful and masterful art, speaking to Hispanic mythology and modern concerns. Painted on a patch of rough concrete wall, a kneeling, anthropomorphic coyote in a smart white suit offers the world the gift of maize, newly-hatched from a giant egg. His lines are crisp and the patterns of his fur are geometric shapes blending organically into his canine form. Next to him, an anime catgirl makes a rude gesture with her fist, while in a piece worthy of Banksy, a human skeleton squats within the outline of a rat.
Another surprise are the indigenous peoples. They make up a good percentage of Oaxaca's population. Here, they are treated with respect, especially at the Sunday market in Tlacolula. The market that would be perfectly at home in Marrakesh or Bangkok. What do you lack? A pasta strainer? A live chicken? Worm salt? Fresh tomatoes? Giant heads of garlic still pungent of the earth they were just pulled free of? Perhaps some agua fresca in 12 different flavors (but mango is the best)? Chapulines? You must try our Chapulines! Spicy and crunchy and strangely addictive; a handful of pesos buys you a plastic bag full: crunchy fried grasshoppers coated in lime salt and chili.
Listen to the languages spoken at each stall: the familiar Latinate Mexican Spanish, but also a dozen different tongues that were native long before the Spanish staked their claim to this place. These indigenous speakers are small people, often hunched from a life of hard labor, but on market Sunday they parade in their most colorful attire. Shocks of red and green, violet and blue, daffodil yellow and obsidian black stand out gem-like against the flood of blue jeans and dark shirts worn by the local Mexicans and tourists like myself.
This is still their land, and Oaxaca accepts this truth with respect.