Oaxaca, messed with humidity and mole: a drummer’s midday rant

It’s still hanging around 23.56°C, feels like 23.04°C. Seriously, the humidity’s just enough to turn air into soup. Was walking through the central plaza, sweat dripped right on my snare setup. Damn, this feels like playing a tambor in a steamed-up steam room. The pressure’s holding at 1015-high enough to make my tinnitus go wild, or maybe that’s the jagged peaks outside screeching today.

If you get restless, San Miguel is a few hours down the road. I heard the mole poblano here’s a myth-something a local warned me about. Maybe true? Sudano Dave at the cantina says otherwise. Drunk advice, take it with a grain of salt, though his rhythms might convince you.

Photographers snap their lenses at the bougainvillea here, but me? I’m after the sweat stains on guitar straps. The weather’s a drum kit: humid air claps, pressure pulses, 41% humidity whispers. This city’s got layers-unlike a session gig where you dive headfirst into chaos, this one drags you in with sticky fingers and murky alleys.

Heard the Mercado Negro is crawling with tourists pretending to be foodies. Skip it. Hit El Mercado 20 de Noviembre instead. Botta-centric, but not):*cliché*. Check out the tascalate stalls at dawn. Pressure drops there, and so do your inhibitions. Stay long enough, and the city becomes your percussion teacher. “Sure,” some gringo will say, “i feel the beat in my bones,” but you’d better be fresh. These streets don’t need warm-ups-they demand a callus.