The Leap
I landed in Oaxaca City with zero expectations and a knot in my stomach. Solo travel sounded cool until I was actually alone, wandering cobblestone streets with my shaky Spanish. But then I hit the markets—Mercado 20 de Noviembre, Tlacolula, all bursting with life. Piles of chiles, mangoes, and weird fruits I couldn’t name, vendors shouting, kids running around—it was chaos, but the good kind. I bought a tamale from a grandma who called me “mija” and told me to smile more. I did.
The smells hit first: roasted corn, mole simmering, and something floral I later learned was hibiscus. I wandered for hours, haggling (badly) for a woven rug, tasting chapulines—yep, crunchy grasshoppers—and feeling like I was waking up. One vendor, a guy selling bright textiles, saw my nervous grin and said, “You’re lost, but that’s okay. Oaxaca finds you.” He wasn’t wrong.
The Magic of Mezcal Nights
By day three, I stumbled into a mezcal bar in the city’s heart. It was tiny, all flickering candles and wooden tables, with locals and travelers swapping stories. I got chatting with a Oaxacan artist who poured me a smoky mezcal and explained how it’s made—slow, traditional, like a love letter to the agave plant. We laughed, danced to some guitar player in the corner, and I felt this weird, warm sense of belonging. Me, the awkward solo traveler, was suddenly part of the crew.
Those nights became my ritual: markets by day, mezcal by night. I met a Canadian backpacker who taught me to salsa, a local cook who invited me to her home for pozole, and a street musician who said my terrible Spanish was “charming.” For the first time in forever, I wasn’t overthinking. I was just… there.
The Real Stuff (and a Few Whoopsies)
Oaxaca’s markets are a blast, but they’re intense. Crowds can overwhelm, and I got pickpocketed on day two—lost 500 pesos, rookie mistake. Keep your bag zipped and your wits sharp. Also, my stomach wasn’t ready for all the street food; let’s just say I spent one morning hugging a toilet. Stick to busy stalls where locals eat, and maybe ease up on the grasshoppers.
Booking a place to stay was trickier than I expected. Some hostels I found online were fully booked for Oaxaca’s big Day of the Dead festival—yep, I didn’t plan that far. X posts warned about sketchy Airbnbs, so I stuck to recommendations from locals I met. Pro tip: small guesthouses near the Zócalo are gold, often under €30 a night.
How Oaxaca Changed Me
Oaxaca didn’t fix my problems—breakups still suck, and my job’s still meh—but it gave me guts. Wandering those markets alone, I learned to trust my instincts. Chatting with strangers over mezcal, I found my voice again. I came home with a journal full of stories, a handwoven bag, and a confidence I didn’t know I had. One night, under a sky full of stars, I wrote: “I’m enough.” Sounds cheesy, but I meant it.
