Back in the days when I was a carefree single bloke, I was invited by my American cousin living in New York to join her on a luxury yacht sailing to the island of Mustique in the Caribbean. It was all apparently part of a publicity drive for a luxury holiday company, and yes, you’ve guessed it, my cousin was in PR and this was one of her clients. The opportunity was too good to miss, so before you could blink, I had started to compare car hire deals operating from Kennedy Airport and was on the next plane to the Big Apple.
Of course, the whole thing was too good to be true. By the time I turned up at my cousin’s apartment in Queens, she greeted me with a long face. The whole thing was off, for us at least. “Those frigging press guys are taking priority over us,” she said as if it was just a minor hiccup. “But hey, don’t worry,” she said cheerfully, “we can always go to Mexico; the Mexico Tourist Board is one of my clients.” And that, to cut a rather long story short, is precisely what we did.
Of course, the whole thing was too good to be true. By the time I turned up at my cousin’s apartment in Queens, she greeted me with a long face. The whole thing was off, for us at least. “Those frigging press guys are taking priority over us,” she said as if it was just a minor hiccup. “But hey, don’t worry,” she said cheerfully, “we can always go to Mexico; the Mexico Tourist Board is one of my clients.” And that, to cut a rather long story short, is precisely what we did.
We flew to Mexico City and from there took another internal flight on Mexicana Airlines to a place I’d never heard of before. Spelt Oaxaca (and pronounced Wuharka), this is the capital city of the large state that bears the same name.
The flight on Mexicana Airlines was an experience in itself. For a start, the plane seemed to be flying below the clouds so you could see the landscape below unfold beneath you for the entire flight. And if you wanted any refreshments, well there was fresh water and a rather stale hunk of bread with something that may have had a vague resemblance to cheese.
The state of Oaxaca is located in the south of Mexico, bordered by the states of Puebla, Veracruz, Chiapas and Guerrero, with the Pacific Ocean to the south.
From the airport, my cousin hailed a cab that looked as if it had been in this world longer than the pair of us put together, and asked the driver in Spanish to take us to the hotel she’d booked us into. “We’re only staying here for two nights,” she declared. And with that, the rust bucket of a car lurched forward and made its way to the Hotel El Presidente. The name has since changed to the Camino Real.
From the dusty streets, you step from one world into another that couldn’t be more different if it tried. In a previous existence the hotel was the convent of Santa Catalina and was built in 1576 as a grand colonial property. It’s a stunningly beautiful place with countless internal squares, faded frescoes, cloisters and courtyards – all beautifully tended with neatly trimmed shrubs, patches of lawn and purple and pink riots of bougainvillea. And in this haven, little birds can be seen darting here and there among the foliage.
We had two separate rooms on the ground floor (there are only two floors) which were vast and both had their own bathrooms and little private courtyards. I had never stayed anywhere like it, and haven’t ever since.
So I’d urge you, if ever visiting Oaxaca to make your way to this remarkable hotel, even if it’s just to have a coffee in one of its many charming cloisters. And whatever you do, don’t miss the market or the archaeological site at Monte Alban, both of which are fascinating.
Alex Pearl is a freelance copywriter and author of ‘Sleeping with the Blackbirds’.
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