LAURA THE EXPLORER
My very first memory, aged not yet three, is of traveling. Now, a few years older (heh), on an adventure to Oaxaca and Las Vegas, I made a whole lot of new ones.
My first travel memory (hell, maybe even my first memory) involves a box of Lego. The Lego, I recall, was key to my experience. I was not yet three years old, and flying with my parents from Brisbane to Sydney, Australia. I remember this: a magical box bestowed to me on a fold-down table, and air, so much air. And light, so much light. The ground retreating below me, and this strange feeling of floating. I remember sailing through these white misty things (“Mum, clouds?”) way up high and the plane wobbling a little bit. But I also remember that I had absolutely no fear. If you had to illustrate “childlike wonder” in the dictionary, I would have been a great option.
When I get on a plane now, the feeling is the same (minus the Lego, although FYI, Delta, that would be cool?). When I get on a plane, I crane my neck, window seat or not, to absorb where I’m leaving, and slowly and contemplatively, where I’m going. I love to see the contours of the earth below me; the cities and towns and deserts and forests and lakes and rock formations and one of my favorites, “center pivot irrigation circles” (I just Googled that and you’re welcome).
I’ve flown a million times for work (I don’t miss the fashion shows in Milan, but those Alps coming in are something else), and while I still do that, of course, I’m trying to make more time to travel for myself. I’m newly conscious of travel’s ability to not only get me somewhere (obvs), but once again, to help me explore.
I’m fond of saying that everybody’s life is like a train track; a pre-ordained route with our responsibilities, routines, our social networks, our “stops.” But sometimes, if you get off one stop before, or one stop after, your journey can change entirely. That beguiling mix of curiosity and mobility can open up another world, like one of those vortexes in superhero films.
I was recently invited to Oaxaca, Mexico by my friend David Prior, who runs a curated, adventurous travel company called Prior. “Do you want to come to Oaxaca for Día de Muertos [Day of the Dead]?” he texted me. I swear I replied, “Yes!” before his message had fully landed. My experience of Mexico to date had included two lovely resorts (in Tulum and Cabo) and a strange two days in Mexico City in 2016 where I shot Formula One champion Lewis Hamilton with a rescued tiger cub on a high-rise helipad (that’s a story for another day).
I’d always been enamored by the idea of Oaxaca, drawn in by its famed craft and food scene. So, I flew to Mexico City (I had the same impression out of the plane window as the first time I was there – the city is mammoth, stretching further than the eye can see). I connected from there to Oaxaca: the guys at airport security, on checking my boarding pass, made a point of telling me how much I’d love it. Well shit, now I was all a’quiver!
I always make a point of celebrating when I’m going somewhere new, because sadly, that tends to happen less as you get older. (You know, that train track and all). And I was beside myself with excitement to land in Oaxaca, immediately greeted with sunshine, movie-grade cacti at the airport, and tuk tuks slowly trundling past our van. Our guide for the trip, Edgar, picked me up and I immediately regaled to him my husband Brandon’s tourist merchandise idea: T-shirts that read, ‘Oax Happens in Oaxaca…” “We’ll make millions!” I squealed. He giggled.
Arriving in Oaxaca’s historic center is a multi-sensory experience. One, it’s loud. Joyfully loud, but loud. Extra loud right now because of the Día de Muertos holiday, where parades tend to spontaneously spring up, day and night. The streets and roofs were absolutely covered in marigolds, their orange vibrancy popping against the colorful walls and hyper-blue sky. Oh, and there are, of course, skeletons and skulls everywhere – on posters or jauntily hanging off balconies, like your friendly neighbor.
The Mexican relationship with death is one of the most moving things I’ve ever experienced. Family or friends who have passed on are welcomed back, memorialized in “ofrendas,” and never truly leave. Ofrendas, altars designed to welcome the souls of the dead, are exquisitely beautiful and deeply personal, filled with framed pictures of saints, family, candles, marigolds, and quite often, favorite foods and snacks of the departed. We visited the home of Edgar’s aunt who told us the story of her family’s ofrenda, while giving us delicious handmade chocolate from a bowl surrounded by fruit, Pan de Muertos - an almost brioche like bread, which features a small head made of flour in each one, made to signify those who have died - and interestingly, a bottle of Coke (hey, Coke is it).
I’ve rarely visited a place so sincere, and so suffused with its culture, as Oaxaca is. It’s cradled by mountains, and you can feel that warmth and protection: it filled my whole chest. We drove to a neighboring town, visited flower markets, and meandered through fields and fields of marigolds and luminous red Celosia Cristata (which I sometimes find at an NYC deli. Dear reader, the experience is not comparable).
One day, celebrated chef Alejandro Ruiz took us the giant local produce market (beautiful madness! I was almost run over by an onion cart, which would surely win me a Darwin Award) and then drove to Alejandro’s farm, Portozuelo, to cook what we bought. Our task was to make Alcaparrado mole, which comprises of about 1000 ingredients – tomatillos, parsley, raisins, garlic, capers, olives, sesame seeds, plantains, thyme, carrots, pickles, dates, onion, Pan de Muertos, and oh yes, a liberal scoop of lard. But oh my God, the taste. I’d never had anything like it. I wanted to vacuum seal my precious Alcaparrado into a giant bag, empty the contents of my freezer and live on it for a year.
After four nights in Oaxaca, I reluctantly got up at 3am and began my eight-hour trip to Las Vegas (because that’s a logical commute. Everybody says so). I was meeting a friend there to go see U2, and figured that while I was already traveling, I might as well just keep on trundling.
It will surprise no one that I am no fan of Vegas, but you know what’s beautiful? Flying in. The Grand Canyon yawning and stretching out below; the beautiful Lake Mead, all the natural and fearless contours of the desert putting themselves on flagrant display for you before you land in the town with the fake Eiffel Tower.
After less than 24 hours in Vegas, I flew to LA to see some friends. As I headed into town - somewhere on Sepulveda, I think - I saw an older Mexican gentleman weaving through the cars at the traffic light selling roses and, in his other hand, a giant bunch of marigolds. He’d walked by me before I noticed, but I opened the window and yelled, “Sir!” to him, so urgently I made the other drivers jump. He turned around, deposited them through the car window and I became the proud owner of the orange beauties I thought I’d left far behind in that Oaxacan valley.
I brought my triumphant bunch to my friend’s house for dinner, and she was delighted, placing them in a bright blue vase. “Oh wow, marigolds!” she exclaimed. “Where did you get them?”
Well, it’s a story. And all because I got off my train track, boarded a plane and went somewhere new. If you’re able to, I highly recommend it.
(This post produced in partnership with the adventurers at Away).