Oaxaca

In 1835 General Mariano Vallejo laid out a plaza in the center of the little village of Sonoma that had sprung up next to the Mission San Francisco Solano, the northernmost and last of the Spanish missions laddering up from San Diego.  What started as a block-square dusty field where cattle scrounged for fodder has morphed and blossomed into the shady plaza that Sonomans enjoy these days.  Scores of leafy deciduous trees.  Duck ponds.  Playgrounds.  A rose garden.  City Hall planted right in the middle.  

Throughout the summer townsfolk gather every Tuesday afternoon for the weekly farmer’s market.  After cruising the pickup trucks for veggies and flowers they buy corn dogs or tamales or bowls of steaming stuff, find a picnic table or roll out a blanket on the sod, and crack a bottle of wine.  Or maybe wander over to the band shell to enjoy some bluegrass or jazz.  

So thank you, General, you succeeded.  You bequeathed Sonoma a plaza that, two centuries on, serves as a gathering place where children romp barefoot and geezers stroll in the sunshine.

And, if you want to witness a truly world-class plaza that dwarfs ours in size and use, hop a flight to Oaxaca, in southern Mexico, and stroll the Zocolo any evening of the year. 

Babies in strollers.  Grannies in wheelchairs.  Whole families hand in hand in hand.  Over there someone has set up giant speakers that blare music into the dusky air so that folks young and old can do the funky whatever with their spouses or children or strangers.  Over here kids line up climb atop a wooden elephant or horse so Mom or Dad can snap a picture.  The balloon man circulates through the throngs.  The guitar guy finds a bench and croons love songs.  Three guys work their mallet magic on a giant vibraphone while their drummer taps time.  Sweethearts share a smooch.  Youngsters launch sausage-shaped balloons from the steps of the cathedral.

While we sit in front of our televisions the good people of Oaxaca amble and stroll and socialize, and nary a cell phone among them.  Dusk turns to dark and the temperature drops, but folks linger, reluctant to leave their nightly scene of casual gaiety, familial affection, and civic warmth.

How I envy them.