North Cackalacky is an endearing slang term that many of us call our beloved adopted state of North Carolina. Also famous for her hot spicy barbecue sauce called, yes, Cackalacky. I just came back from a weekend in the mountains where apple orchards, dogwoods and azaleas were in full bloom.
The young maple leaves were that deep limey color we see in these parts, a Oaxaca counterpart only known by the juice I put in my Victoria beer. They don’t know Michelada (Mexico City style) or Suero (so-called in Oaxaca) here in North Cackalacky, but they do know beer.
Asheville has a beer pedal pub that holds 12 and goes up and down the streets, many of them hilly. You have to pedal while you swill, not an easy feat. Asheville has 30+ micro-breweries.
I gave my Asheville waiter the Suero recipe. He came up with fresh lemons. Lemonade beer. Not bad, but not Oaxaca. Bless his heart.
I love the Blue Ridge Mountains. Hills and valleys. Winding roads that actually have lines painted down the middle and no potholes. Unlike Oaxaca. The hollers (that’s hollows in North Cackalacky) are the valleys between the hills where million dollar retirement houses and double-wides can sit side-by-side.
We cross the Eastern Continental Divide. Climb to a bit over 3,000 feet. Look out at 6,000+ foot Mount Mitchell, the highest mountain east of the Mississippi. In Teotitlan del Valle, we nestle in the Tlacolula Valley on a 6,000 foot high desert plateau surrounded by 12,000 foot peaks.
Coming to North Carolina is a homecoming for me. Here, I connect with family like friends who nurture my heart and soul. I eat soul satisfying food like grit cakes, hush puppies, sweet potato fries and liver ‘n onions at the Moose Cafe. I watch the Chef & the Farmer on PBS and hope to eat there, Downeast in Kinston, NC, someday.
And, I’m also getting some things done, like finalizing my will, living will, health care power of attorney and medical directives, and completing some other essential legal paperwork.
Tomorrow, I go to Comeback Grit City, Durham, North Carolina, where renovated tobacco plants and warehouses promote urban dining and living. Friends will nurture me and we will revisit our long history together. I have brought along Gin Mezcal to get our tongues rolling.
Kathryn says she wants me to write about our trip down the mountain on Highway 9, from Hendersonville through Bat Cave to Old Fort, NC. It’s a long and very winding road through some backcountry neighborhoods. I’ll save that story for another time.
Where are you from? Where are you going? Oaxaca, Mexico. Durham, North Carolina.
Yesterday was a long travel day to get from Oaxaca, Mexico, to Durham, North Carolina. On the early morning flight from Oaxaca to Mexico City, I met Carina Pacheco from San Pablo Villa de Mitla, Oaxaca. She was on her way to Cabo San Lucas where the family has a shop that sells famous Mitla woven cotton textiles.
Where are you from? she asks me. Teotitlan del Valle, Oaxaca, I say with some pride in my voice. And, now I’m sure to add, Durham, North Carolina, too, also with equal pride. Durham will be my new home, too. Carina and I promise to stay in contact. I’m certain we will. Oaxaqueños keep their promises. Plus, we live only a few villages apart down the Panamerican Highway.
Weaver Arturo Hernandez, San Pablo Villa de Mitla, Oaxaca: “I made your clothes.”
In Houston, a young man named Stefano helps me load my two giant suitcases (I’m moving, after all) onto a trolley to go through customs. Stefano is from Puebla. His great, great-grandfather came from Italy. He lives in a small town near Cholula, Puebla, populated by Italians, and speaks excellent English.
Mexico is a melting pot, filled with immigrants: Africa, Italy, Eastern Europe, Germany, France, Philippines, China, and yes, the USA. They are Catholics, Jews, Protestants, Muslims, Hindus and more. A long history of diversity shows in their complexions and features. Racial and cultural intermarriage is accepted here.
Where are you from? says Stefano. Two places, I answer. Oaxaca, Mexico and Durham, North Carolina. It’s beginning to sound real as I prepare to move into my apartment/condo in downtown Durham, which is why I’m here now. We sit down to share a meal together before he goes on to Tampa, Florida. This only happens to me with Mexicans!
Durham is an old tobacco town undergoing urban revitalization. Its downtown is filled with great restaurants and street musicians who are steeped in the South’s blues culture. It’s a pedestrian lifestyle. I’ll be close to good, longtime friends who I miss.
Downtown Durham, NC — where I live now, too
I’m also here in a Blue Bubble, where I can make a difference by participating in the NAACP and changing the course of my state’s and country’s political history. Ojala! (That’s Spanish for, god willing.)
It’s been four years since I’ve had a home in North Carolina and I’m grateful to be back. Oaxaca is my home, too, where indigenous identity speaks to me. This is where I look out over mountains and valleys where textiles woven and dyed with the hands of the artisans are a song.
And, what are in my suitcases? Oaxaca whole bean coffee. A cotton bedspread woven by Arturo Hernandez. A rebozo from Tenancingo de Degollado. A blouse from Cuetzalan, Puebla. A poncho from San Cristobal de las Casas, Chiapas. Borders are seamless in the end.
Yet, an airline representative steps onto the plane in Houston and says that due to heightened security, we will be escorted to immigration. I don’t remember that. Another new form of intimidation?
Posted in Cultural Commentary, Textiles, Tapestries & Weaving, Travel & Tourism
Tagged Durham, home, immigration, Mexico, moving, North Carolina, Oaxaca, travel, where I live