"Adonde?" the driver questioned, wondering where exactly I wanted to go.

"No conozco…un hotel cerca al playa," I repeated in the best Spanish I could, irritated by the morning sun, my head groggy from lack of sleep on the bus. Anyplace near the beach would be good.

The middle-aged man moved his eyes from me in the rear-view mirror to the gearshift and gauges in front of him. He cranked the wheel hard to the left and we pulled into the street without looking.

As we entered Puerto Escondido's maze of curving streets, all I could think of was the beach on the other side and the healing affects of the ocean. It was very colorful here, houses and family-owned stores painted blue, yellow, green; whatever suited their fancy. We passed some with fish and other sea creatures drawn on them, many advertising restaurants.

After some sleep and a meal I'll be good as new, I told myself.

It was midday by the time I got a room and rested a bit. I was tired, it was hot and the bed was barely a notch above sleeping on the floor. Sounds came into the room easily through open ventilation holes in the wall. I shaved, gathered some things and went outside.

As I walked out of the hotel I didn't see anyone and found myself at a dirt road lined with shops. I looked right, then left. Still no-one. I became suspicious. The sun was bright, burning my shoulders. As I walked along the road I finally saw a few people sitting in the corners of their shops, trying to escape the heat. Mangy dogs sat in the shade, their droopy eyes following me with no particular intention.

Where the paved road began taxi drivers were napping in their seats. To my right there were more wooden stalls. Past the stalls I saw swaying palms and sand.

Small fishing boats had been dragged up the beach and left in the sand. A few people were relaxing on beach towels, water bottles nearby. A handmade sign spoke of fresh seafood. I spent the rest of the day there, eating shrimp and bananas and swinging in a hammock.

"What a lazy little town," I thought.

The next day I moved into a hostel and met people from all parts of the globe, mostly Europe and South America. I bought some cheap flip-flops and threw my boots in a corner. My pants and jacket became worthless. There would be no white Christmas here.

Despite spending most of my life in sunny Phoenix, Arizona, sledding and snowmen were still strong Christmas images for me. Snowball fights and Jingle Bells were intrinsic to the season whether they existed or not. Yet during my two weeks in Puerto Escondido I thought of nothing but sun and surf. Not once did I see Eastern Seaboard snowstorms on television, or hear about freezing temperatures on the radio.

Classics such as It's a Wonderful Life, A Christmas Story, and Miracle on 24th Street never aired. Values of charity and goodwill were not forced upon me through any kind of holiday spirit. Instead I became more patient and generous by realizing how fortunate I was. The world was joyful not because of a song or a hope but because families here lived and loved together. Spending time with family was a lifelong experience for these people, not just a couple days in December.

Although some places in town hung red and green plastic decorations on their walls, Christmas scarcely crossed my mind until someone explained to me that it was the church that was setting off the intermittent loud booms of fireworks. They were initially very annoying, startling me as I played cards, but I soon learned to adapt to the tradition. I even began to envy the church as the centerpiece of the season.

My schedule in Puerto Escondido was very simple. I woke around 10 for a dollar breakfast of scrambled eggs, refried beans, fresh tortillas and juice. The rest of the day was spent at the beach or walking around the town. Sometimes a few of us from the hostel would wake up early and rent surfboards. We would spend all day taking turns trying to surf and ordering cheap meals from a nearby restaurant. At dusk we walked back along the beach to the hostel. We always stopped to watch the real surfers, those who could actually catch a wave, at Zicatela beach. None of us dared to try surfing there; the waves could get very large and dangerous, especially at dawn and dusk. Our evenings usually involved going to a local bar and playing pool or hearts.

One day I noticed a publication in the hostel mentioning a posada or procession on December 12th. I made a mental note not to miss it.

La Virgin de Guadalupe came to Juan Diego on December 9, 1531. While crossing the hill of Tepeyac, the site of an earlier Aztec shrine, Señor Diego was amazed to see a female figure emerge from a cloud surrounded by rainbows. Dressed in green, red, and gold the woman told Diego that she was the mother of God and she was going to help the oppressed of the world, especially children. She asked Diego to have the bishop in Mexico City build a shrine on the spot where she appeared.

The bishop was not convinced and asked for proof of Diego's vision. Three days later La Virgin again appeared to Diego, leaving an image of a Mestiza woman on his cloak. This was the proof needed and all the indigenous peoples of Latin America embraced La Virgin de Guadalupe as their spiritual mother and savior. Now every year, families come to the church for a mass to bless the children on December 12th.

So, on the 12th, there I was waiting outside the church. Dressed in their finest (girls holding flowers and decorated with ribbons while the boys wore little sombreros, drawn-on mustaches, and red sashes), the young ones were escorted to the church while a band played behind them. The band consisted of a few boys and men aged 15 to 60. Their tuning and rhythm needed work, they didn't even try to stay in-step with each other, and they seemed to start and stop without notice. A far cry from the well rehearsed church or marching bands that might perform in the US. But no one seemed to care. I certainly didn't.

The pace of the procession was leisurely, as though the day would last forever. I was amused by and attracted to the informality of the entire occasion. Some families headed straight for the church, others took time to pose for pictures in front of a large image of La Virgin or stopped for a snack. One boy had smeared his mustache and dribbled some ice cream onto his white t-shirt. His mother made no fuss. She simply wiped away the big bits and left the rest to worry about later. Some of the kids made to take photos didn't care to pose with a smile. One kicked and screamed. It reminded me of a similar seasonal rite-of-passage back home: American youngsters made to sit with a strange man dressed in red, his face almost completely obscured by unnatural white hair and beard.

Chickens at the Church

As the bus wound its way up the dirt road I admired the locals. The women wore long-sleeved blouses and calf-length skirts. Men wore pants and sweaters. Their shoes were covered in dirt and well worn. Many of the people looked old yet they could work all day, going up and down and up again the inclined road, carrying anything from rocks to corn to wool for weaving. The houses along the road were simple, wood and stone mostly. The children helped carry loads, watched after infant relatives or stood frozen and staring at the passing bus. Some waved and ran off embarrassed while others just chewed at their fingers.

Scouting for a place to stay I felt the obvious change in climate. Puerto Escondido had been sunny and warm but here in San Cristobal it was chilly and threatened rain. I stopped to take off my pack and slip on my rain jacket. The smell of roasted corn followed me as I tried to balance on the tiny stone sidewalk. When people came the other way I felt obliged to step into the street without looking, hoping a car wasn't about to pass too close. Looking into the faces of the people I saw a hard life, a wrinkled life. But those same gouges in the skin adorned their smiles, which they often shared with me.