Dust on the boots, wind in our hair, and a plate of the most authentic street tacos we’ve found yet. 🌶️ The Star of the Show:
After the literal mountain-climb that was Part 9a, we didn't think our digestive tracts (or our marriage) could take much more. But then we saw it: a hand-painted sign pointing toward a neon-lit alley in the heart of Oaxaca. No name. Just a spray-painted taco icon and an arrow. Naturally, we followed it. The Adventurous Couple Version Tacos Part 9b
We finally got cell service to post this. Part 10 will be "The Roadside Vending Machine Omelette." Don't judge us. Dust on the boots, wind in our hair,
Hand-pressed maíz criollo , blue-black in color, almost purple. It was thick—not fluffy, but dense, like it had been pressed by a ghost using a piece of volcanic rock. The edges were charred to the point of fragility. It tasted of roasted corn and the faintest whisper of ash. No name