Intimidating, the Governor thought the tourists would feel safer with them there…among other political reasons.

Gone from the Zocalo are the PFP with their menacing night sticks and bullet-proof vests and their rifles and sidearms…for shooting and for tear gas. Although the night before, Steve said, a large group of State police were gathered at one corner of the Zocalo…apparently responding to a rumor.

Gone are the teachers and the banners including one huge picture of Marx, Engles, Trotsky…and STALIN! Always meant to go up and ask the kids under the banner if they knew anything about Stalin who killed 30,000 of my husband’s German compatriots in the Ukraine by forced starvation. And that was the least of it. People buried food to give them a little extra time before the expected end. I have been unable to trace any remaining relatives through genealogy channels any further back than Bob’s grandfather who immigrated into Saskachewan Canada and then North Dakota.

Last night, balmy and breezy, Steve, Oscar and Ana’s mother and boyfriend and I took a leisurely walk to the people-filled Zocalo for dinner at the Jardin. The Oaxacan cheese-stuffed chili rellenos with salsa roja was a D. Every night there is entertainment…last night, about 10pm, after a music recital, just as we were leaving, they were setting up for dancing within a large circle of chairs. The restaurant’s marimba players were hauling out their instruments for another evening in front of the sidewalk tables. A hilarious clown was readying his routine.
A bit afraid we might get pulled in to be the straight guys, we headed home. Besides Oscar was tired and that means trouble.

I shall have to venture out more at night before the teachers return for their annual strike in May. Besides, back in the States, there will be no more late night/early morning forays into the lovely lively outdoors…unless you live in New York City in the summer.

One thing I want to know, though, is why the roosters never know what time it is in Oaxaca!