Oaxaca City is the kind of place I went to for a long weekend and stayed for a week instead. The food alone justifies it — seven different moles at one restaurant, none of them tasting anything like the others, and I still haven’t decided on a favourite.
A mezcalería near the Zócalo talked me through a flight of five, each one from a different village, each one apparently made by someone the bartender knew personally.
Mercado Benito Juárez spills across several blocks of the old centre, stalls selling everything from fresh tortillas to chapulines by the kilo. I made a habit of going back most mornings, mostly just to see what was different that day.
The ruins at Monte Albán, a short taxi ride out of the city, were the one proper day trip — worth it for the views over the valley alone, ruins aside.
