I kicked things off in the Zócalo, Oaxaca’s main square, where the city was in full Día de los Muertos mode. Altars, or ofrendas, were everywhere—piled with tamales, oranges, and old photos, lit by candles that flickered like they were whispering secrets. Kids with painted skull faces ran around, munching on sugar skulls, while brass bands blared and dancers in skeleton costumes spun through the streets. It was chaos, but the kind that makes your heart beat faster. I didn’t have a plan, just a notebook and a hunger for whatever Oaxaca was serving.
My first night, I wandered out of the Zócalo into the narrower streets of Jalatlaco, a neighborhood where murals bloom like wildflowers. The air was thick with the scent of marigolds, called cempasúchil here, said to guide the dead back home. I followed a crowd to the Panteón San Miguel, a cemetery that was less spooky and more like a family reunion. Graves were decked out with flowers, candles, and bottles of mezcal. Families sat on blankets, sharing stories, eating mole-slathered tamales, and passing around cups of atole. I felt like an intruder, but a woman named Rosa waved me over, handed me a tamale, and said, “Sit. The dead don’t mind.”
Rosa’s family was honoring her grandfather, a farmer who loved mezcal and corridos. They’d built an ofrenda with his favorite things: a pack of cigarettes, a tiny guitar, and a photo of him grinning under a sombrero. “This isn’t about sadness,” Rosa told me, her eyes bright. “It’s about keeping them close.” We talked for hours, the cemetery alive with laughter and music. A mariachi band played nearby, and someone’s uncle started singing, off-key but heartfelt. I tried mezcal for the first time—smoky, sharp, like drinking a campfire—and felt the night wrap around me like a warm blanket.
The next day, I went off the beaten path, skipping the tourist-heavy markets for the Mercado de Abastos. It’s a sprawling maze where vendors sell everything from dried chiles to live chickens. I got lost (naturally), but that led me to a stall selling chapulines—crispy grasshoppers dusted with chili. I hesitated, then crunched one. Salty, tangy, not bad. The vendor, a guy named Miguel, laughed at my face. “Gringos always make that look,” he said. I bought a bag to be polite, but ended up eating half of it. Oaxaca does that—makes you try things you never thought you would.
Another day, I trekked to the village of Santa María Atzompa, about 20 minutes from the city. It’s known for its green-glazed pottery, but I went for the quiet. The streets were dusty, lined with adobe houses, and kids kicked a soccer ball in a field. I found a tiny comedor where an abuela served tlayudas—giant tortillas slathered with beans, cheese, and salsa. It was messy, glorious, and paired with a cold Victoria beer, it was heaven. The cook, Doña Elena, told me stories of her childhood, when Día de los Muertos was smaller, less touristy. “It’s bigger now, but the heart’s the same,” she said. “We honor our people.”
One night, I joined a comparsa, a street parade in Xoxocotlán, another cemetery turned festival ground. People danced in costumes—devils, skeletons, even a Frida Kahlo lookalike. A guy named Juan, a teacher, explained the holiday’s roots. “It’s pre-Hispanic, mixed with Catholic stuff,” he said, passing me a cup of mezcal. “We don’t fear death; we invite it to eat with us.” The procession wound through the graves, lit by thousands of candles. I felt like I was part of something ancient, something bigger than myself.
Oaxaca’s offbeat routes are endless. Skip the crowded Santo Domingo church and head to the Mercado 20 de Noviembre for memelas—griddled masa topped with whatever’s fresh. For a surreal escape, visit the Ethnobotanical Garden, where cacti and agave tell Mexico’s story. If you’re up for a hike, climb to the Cerro del Fortín for a view of Oaxaca’s sprawl against the mountains. For a quirky bite, try La Hormiga, a mezcalería with over 50 varieties and bartenders who double as storytellers.
Oaxaca’s magic is its refusal to be just one thing. It’s indigenous and Spanish, ancient and modern, solemn and wild. The food’s a revelation—mole negro’s smoky depth, tlayudas’ crunch, mezcal’s burn. Locals eat with joy, piling plates high, sharing with strangers. The habit of building ofrendas, of remembering the dead with laughter, feels like a lesson in living. Día de los Muertos isn’t about grief; it’s about connection, about weaving the past into the present.
I left Oaxaca with marigold petals in my bag and a new way of seeing the world. The city taught me to celebrate what’s fleeting, to dance with the ghosts we carry, to find joy in the messy, beautiful now. It’s not a place you visit—it’s a place you carry, like a song you can’t stop humming.
