Amy and I live a quiet, creative life on the outskirts of one of the world’s most vibrant cities—Oaxaca, Mexico. Our village sits far enough from town to feel rural, but close enough to dip in whenever we choose. The drive takes about forty-five minutes, made longer by the countless speed bumps that punctuate every road here. They are unavoidable, and somehow comforting—part of the rhythm of life in southern Mexico.
Yesterday we left home at 4:15 in the afternoon, leaving our two dogs behind, who would later greet us as if we’d been gone for weeks.
Our first stop was the local seamstress. She had altered two pairs of pants and a skirt for us, all for the handsome price of ten dollars. She is a sweet, older woman, very small, who wears an apron and keeps religious icons watching over her tiny shop. Her work is careful and precise, and she always greets us with genuine warmth. We love these small human connections—they anchor us.
From there we walked around the corner to Boulenc, a bakery that has become indispensable to our lives. Good bread is surprisingly hard to find, but this place gets it right every time. Fresh loaves, muffins, croissants, and pastries fill the air with that unmistakable scent that makes restraint impossible. We stop in at least once a week, and yesterday was no exception.
Next door is the restaurant run by the same establishment, and it happens to be one of the hippest spots in the area—bohemian, lively, and always buzzing. Amy and I shared a late-afternoon salad and the slice of cheesecake we’d just purchased next door. Simple, perfect, unhurried.
From there we drove on to our main destination: a five-day carnival set up in one of the city’s landmark parks. Being Saturday, all of Oaxaca seemed to be out. Families, teenagers, couples, street vendors—everyone moving together in that easy, festive way people do here. There were food stalls and trinket booths, thrill rides and Ferris wheels, and music everywhere.
Amy and I split up for a while—she browsed the booths while I wandered with my camera. As night fell, the carnival transformed. Colored lights flared to life, spinning rides became ribbons of motion, and the air thickened with laughter and sound. I love photographing that swirl of energy—the joy, the movement, the faces lit by anticipation.
When Amy and I reunited, we played a few of the games together. Our favorite is always the horse race. A row of toy horses stands at the ready behind a miniature racetrack. You hurl small pinballs into holes on a slanted board—the harder shots are higher up and earn more points, moving your horse forward faster. A racetrack announcer narrates the action nonstop over a microphone, while a soundtrack blares in the background. It’s ridiculous and wonderful fun.
Days like this remind us how rich an ordinary life can be—stitched together from small encounters, good food, bright lights, shared laughter, and the comfort of coming home.
