It is only one day. It is not forever.

I rise early for some unknown reason. Perhaps it's the cold air, the unusual quiet, the fact that I went to bed at 9. Who can say? But today is Market Day in Tlaxiaco. Vendors and consumers from all ovee the area come to take part in the "Tianguis." It's arouns 7:30a, and yet the Plaza is already full of merchants. They arrived in the night, like Santa, setting up stacks of bright treats in town center. Colored tarps drap the entirety of the square. I'm thankful I am a mere 5'2", and thus, can walk freely around; whereas, a taller individual would spend the morning hunched under low-hanging tarps, trekking from stall to stall. The market sprawls from the Plaza, to the adjoining streets, to the alleyways, to the square in front of the Municipal Building a few blocks away. If there is a vacant space, it has been filled by a tortillera, a vegetable seller, a child hawking chicle.

I do a lap to take in the whole experience. Different shapes and shades of chiles pile into mountains on the west side of the Plaza. The center square is a patchwork of fruit of vegetable vendors. Neat pyramids of tomatoes, tomatillos, onions and ciruelas pile around older women in traditional dress. The winding alley that snakes back from the southeast corner of the Plaza holds flower sellers. I follow the scents back to the indoor section of the market where bread merchants stand guard over sugared breads, pan yema in bags, or tiny buns dusted in sugar and filled with a dollop of cream. I meander further, to the northwast entrance of the Plaza where shoe sellers have carefully stacked hundreds of displays of shoes, from tennis wear to dress wingtips. One vendor hands a plastic bag to a customer, he places it over his naked foot to slip on the brown loafer.

The pace is very fast this morning, as vendors hurredly jimmy and rig their tents for the imminent rush in a few hours. Others who are already set up, busy themselves with preparations of nopales, or take a machete to sugar cane.

My stomach starts to grumble, So I know it's time to find a spot to eat. The east side of the Plaza holds a number of options. Families have set up sprawling tables and benches to serve moles, caldos (broths), arroz, tacos and frijoles. I take a seat where the cazuelas (clay pots) look the most inviting. "Qué te sirvo, Güerita," the Señora beckons. I point to the pot filled with mole amarillo, shrimp and nopales. The Señora hands me a plate laden with seasoned rice, beans and the main course. Once I've ordered other food vendors quickly descend to inquire if I need anything to accompnsy my meal (coke, coffee, chapulines (grasshoppers)). I order two fresh tortillas from a young woman and atole (a warm drink made with corn masa, cinnamon, brown sugar and milk) from another. As others take seats on the bench and inquire as to the spiciness of the nopales dish, the Señora shouts to me "Güerita, está picosa la tuya?" I've bcome the measure of what is spicy or not. It's a messy breakfast. As I shuck each shrimp, I try to sop up the juices with tortilla. I can't help but stain my fingertips with the thin, red sauce ( I know, why is it "yellow mole" when the sauce is red? Because, my friends, the red mole is REALLY red!) I finish up and the women flock to me to collect payment ($35 for the main dish, $5 for the atole, $2.50 for the tortillas). I'm stuffed for the day and it cost me $4.20 usd. woohoo!

I trek, slowly (mind you) out to the station; I'm carrying an army inside my stomach now. XETLA is virtually empty save for Cornelio, who is running the on-air program. Daniel arrives a bit later and tells me to sit in the studio to continue reading the materials he gave me yesterday "porque hay más paz allí." He comes in every 10 minutes to introduce me to someone new--the web desginer, Julio; the architect for the new building, Juan.

Finally he introduces me to Anderson and Señor Bautista (his father), who make up the musical group "Dueto Bautista," a chilena band from San Juan Mixtepec. They're here for the presentation of their first CD. The station produced it with sponsorship from a donor in Florida. The pair are hoping to preserve the traditional music of their pueblo, which in Mixteco is called Ya 'a sií (pronounced "Jazzy"). With time and migration, the return of so many from places outside SJ Mixtepec, the music has morphed and adapted new sounds. They're trying to conserve the original music as best as possible for future generations. Up until the recent donation, that was made totally impossible for a family of so little means. They have a conversation on air with Daniel in Mixteco and Spanish for about an hour. Then they invite us all back to their home for a feast of thanks for the making of the disk. We pile into trucks and drive the hour-and-a-half to get there.

The next part will be hard for me to impart. What transpired was somewhat overwhelming in how perfectly lovely, and surreal it was. At times I felt like I was living inside a photo drawn from the Fulbright Fellowship handbook. You know, I'm one of those smiling American faces, dropped into a colorful and foreign background, doing something so outside my own culture, being wholly welcomed into the festivities, and participating with open arms. I half expected the Fulbright Commission to jump out of the bushes and start filming me, asking "So Megan, tell America what you're doing with her hard earned taxes on this fellowship." To which I would have had to confess first, "America, I am getting very drunk."

We arrived at Anderson's house where a tarp was drapped over part of the yard to cover a long table split from one end to the other by a straight line of soft drinks, beer and tequila bottles. Anderson's entrire family is present, from cousins, to uncles to brothers. They welcome us, and begin to serve the shots of tequila, chased by cervezas. There is no refusing a drink--it is mandatory today. And the moment you finish your beer, another appears in it's place, full and ready to go. The abuelas (grandmothers), mothers, aunts and wives arrive now that they have completed cooking the main dish. I greet each one with a handshake. The final tia, the oldest at 70 some-odd-years of age and tiny (she'd probably come up to my armpit), her eyes glassy and blue from age, her wrinkles spreading out from her smile--she takes my hand, bends down and kisses it.

I'm...I'm totally without words.

I think she has mistaken me for someone else, like the man who sponsored the CD. Daniel leans in and whispers that the kiss is a demonstration of tremendous respect here. He makes me observe that she offers it to no one else. He says. "She has bestowed you the place of highest honor at the table, Megan." Honestly, is there anything in my life up until this point that I could hold in comparisson with this? How to measure the feeling? How to convery how my heart squeezed in my chest at this simple gesture? Why me?

We drink. We eat. The meal is a very traditional Mixteco feast--caldo de Pollo with rice, chile and clove. All is accompanied with fresh tortillas from red, blue and yellow corn; you have not eaten a tortilla until you have tried one that is made fresh from stalks of corn harvested that day. A bowl of crisp, sliced raddishes to munch is proffered. Seconds are served; the stomach must make room for more. Another round of drinks, of course! I suddenly downshift, getting my second wind, and pop the top of a Sol beer. Anderson and his father take up violin and guitar to play for those who have gathered. More arrive. Anderson's wife wanders in; much is made of their new baby at 1 1/2 months of age. "The güerita must hold him," they clamour. And suddenly the warm, little fellow is passed into my arms. Many pictures are taken of the "madrina," godmother, me! The music starts again and Anderson's mom compells all to dance. The abuelitas put down their beers (oh yea, they're throwing it back, too. Make no mistake) and join in. They play song to song without break, they say, "to warm our bodies for the cold return to Tlaxiaco."

The tarp is dismantled. A fire bursts to light--many gather around to warm backsides while filling mouth and throat with tequila. Someone backs up his car to shead the headlights on our gathering; their electricity is not working today. I tap the daughter-in-law on the shoulder to ask where the bathroom is. She leads me back through tall grass and wooden shacks to an outhouse. From inside the stall, I squat and look out through the crook in the door to the night sky with a million stars; I hear the sounds of strings being strummed, and the shuffling feet of dancers in the distance. I have to concentrate to pee; I'm made nervous by daughter-in-law guzzling a beer just a few feet away.

When I return, I try to take a sip from a bottle of water. Anderson's mother will have none of it. She stumbles through her Spanish (she mostly speaks Mixteco) and says, "It is only one day. It is not forever. Enjoy this one night!" And so, I rest the beer bottle against my lips, turn to the small crowd of merriment and let my feet shuffle back and forth to the music as the night wears on...

**More pictures (and perhaps video! to come)