December 22: the handsome old colonial zócalo and plaza are thronged. Overhead the brilliant full moon, final full moon of year, of the century, of the millenium, depending on whose calendar you choose. Lots of amateurs, cooks and craftspeople, women who sew blouses, string amber beads, weave hats — the whole population has turned out, either selling or buying. Housewives brought their own comals, ceramic cooking discs that balance on top of charcoal stoves. Tortilla presses, transported away from homes, do service in the plaza. The odor of grilled meats fills the air. The sugared fruits and cream-filled pastries are aswarm with bees.

      Coca-Cola Christmas Trees grow in Mexico. We saw the first of the season in Campeche: a high plastic green thing onto which were pegged huge round red disks, each proclaiming “Coca-Cola”. The current PAN candidate for president used to work for Coke, but I’m sure his personal attention was not required, so prevalent is the government scramble to “modernize” the economy. The domination of corporate icons, from Coke to Disney, is putting Tommy Hilfigger on the back of the eager Mexican consumer, and Nikes on his feet; the alert PRI official stands with open arms.

      But perhaps something this year went too far. One of the oldest cathedrals of Mexico graces the Oaxaca plaza. The first was built in Mexico DF, the second in Puebla, the third in Oaxaca. The first two have been damaged by settling and earthquakes. The Oaxaca cathedral, its weather-scrubbed statuary on the high frieze, the mosaic of dark and light tiles on its twin domed belfries, the grand walls, is virtually intact. It has a name, but no-one seems to know it; simply it’s called La Catedrál, the Cathedral.

      Flash over to the main zócalo and there romp a couple of plaster polar bears (sort of like dinosaurs for crazed Oaxacan children), twin plaster snowmen, and beyond them, a Nativity scene reposes, which appears quite traditional until you see that in front of it, two outsized Disney-type Easter bunnies are pouring water from jugs into an artificial pool.

      This was the evening before Noche de Los Rabanos, Night of The Radishes. George and I strolled down to see the plaza filled with stalls of hand-made crafts, foods, sweets, music, the munificent and animated display which makes Oaxaca so enjoyable. Not a square foot of the plaza or surrounding streets lay empty. Meanwhile the city government had begun the installation of special plywood display areas for the radishes, and on most of them children were bouncing around trampoline style, and dashing back and forth. We ascended to a restaurant above the square for dinner and a glass of Noche Buena, the Christmas-only beer. Gazing down from the open balcony window past the strings of Christmas lights, I realized the Coca–Cola Tree was gone.

      The Spanish word is lovely: se quitó; they were quit of it.

      Just that morning we had read in Reforma, a major Mexican daily, a diatribe pointing out the gross violation of any cultural sense of self in Oaxaca’s holiday decorations. The article, written by Gustavo Esteva, was one of several complaints about despoiling Oaxaca’s heritage. Okay. So we say to the waiter, “What happened to the Coca-Cola Tree?” and he replied, in a fairly forthcoming way, that many people didn’t like it, and furthermore, that with it in place, there was no space for the radishes. “Ah,” we responded, knowing full-well that radish ramps had surrounded the polar bears and bunnies in the square, “Did you see the news article in today’s Reforma?” No, he hadn’t. Off he went to borrow a copy from the owner, who did have one.

      Meanwhile, at the table next to us, appeared three men in business attire, two of them chained to cell phones. Our area of the restaurant was now emptying of customers. Calls were made. The waiter reappeared and said the owner’s copy of Reforma was not to be found. A bustle behind George with waiters and tables. Then entered four more gents in suits, one of whom I recognized as the Municipal President, and another surely was the Governor. They began their discussion.

      So perhaps we were inadvertent witnesses to a meeting of the cabal, during which I hope recriminations were issued in regard to the Coca-Cola Tree fiasco. But more likely, plots were laid to further implicate Oaxaca in cultural self-destruction. Speaking only as a tourist, and leaving aside the miseries imposed by Neo-Liberalism, I don’t think these official guys are too bright. One of the grand facts of the festival, I felt, is that although consumerism runs rampant, much is hecho por mano, hand made, so that when I spend money I’m giving it directly to the worker, not to a remote owner/profit-taker. Except of course for Coke.

      Downstairs as we left, a man braced himself against the doorway walls as if for a long night. When we passed, I asserted, without really knowing, “That guy’s a security cop.” Intrepid George returned to the man and asked him if he was guarding the Municipal President. “No,” he replied, “the Governor.” Just to make sure, we returned in twenty minutes and there he still stood. A long night.

      So what’s the radish story?

      The Night of the Radishes is an authentic piece of folk custom, proceeding from a competition among flower-growers and horticulturists. Apparently the first event a hundred or so years ago was at a Christmas Vigil market, and it just grew, as good folk customs do. The main feature is the radishes, which are extravagantly carved to represent animals and figures. I mean, not just one radish, but a sculpture of radishes, with some radishes opened flat to create stars, some carved with faces and costumes, and some skinned to make replicas of wood shingles or planks. Carts and stars! Pageants, parades, murals depicting the Nativity, historical events, saints, horses, dancers and dreams: radishes on top of radishes, a veritable Radish Renaissance! Dried corn husks are dyed and twisted to make costumes for the figures; entire montages are constructed with vegetables and flowers. Judges and spectators proceed around the ramps. Comments are exchanged; photos taken; kind translations were offered; even the security guard responded to my question: “It’s a scene of harvesting the maize,” — depicted in corn skin, of course. Our favorite in the corn skin category was a plaza scene, complete with umbrella-shaded tables, strolling vendors and families, the Cathedral, of course. In the radish category, what we liked best was a frog riding on the back of a turtle. The caption was, “Different Destinations.” Prizes, music — the whole event is astonishing and enjoyable. And then capped off with fireworks.

      By then the fire brigade had arrived, with their yellow helmets and windbreaker jackets zipped to the neck. Each man was armed with a small red fire extinguisher, and circulated on foot through the stalls and streets, alert and ready. I noticed as we made our way around toward the Cathedral, that a platform was set up for viewing the fireworks, and the firework armatures were neatly arranged. They stood in the Coca-Cola Tree’s vacated space.

      The tradition of El Noche de Los Rabanos precedes the tourist industry as surely as Christmas does, but of course tourists streamed everyplace. The tourists buy the embroidered blouses, draw-string pants, ribbon-bedecked dresses. The young Oaxaqueños are nicely clad in Levis, the older folks in basic polyester, the wealthier in the Mexico City mode. The locals eat the street food, often a terror to tourists who head for the tourist restaurants where foods are disinfected.

      So now, still filled with Coca-Cola righteous indignation, I need a Reality Check.

      What Reality Check are you referring to here, Dearie? asks my alter ego. Questions for which I have no answers, THAT reality. For example, at what point in our history did a North Pole with elves appear in a Filene’s window, and become instantly acceptable in Boston? Or kosher Chinese restaurants?

      On Christmas Eve we straggled out of our apartment clad in Chiapas-made woolies, and in addition I pulled my hecho por mano rebozo around the shoulders of my hecho por mano jacket. It was cold – maybe 52º Fahrenheit. Overhead the moon still gleamed, somewhat worn around the edges. We walked down the dark street until we heard music, and like children to the Pied Piper, followed until we were caught up in a procession.

      To explain the Mexican processions, their main aspect is that they too are hecho por mano, with an assembled band of musicians followed by an assembled troop of ordinary folks. For Christmas, this procession included a young girl mounted on a burro, her white satin mantle draped over her head and around the burro's flanks. Three men on horses followed, costumed with charming fake whiskers and crowns, to represent the Wise Men. Behind came the people, carrying torches made of candles mounted inside cellophane shades on long sticks, and sparklers which threw their points of light recklessly upon us. I accepted a torch from an unknown woman; we were smiled at, spoken to, a part of the procession.

      We paraded down to the zócalo, our small troop meeting up with grander ones that qualified as calendas because they included floats: trucks bearing an assortment of angels secured with ropes to their little chairs on the back of the truck, bigger angels seated in front of Nativity scenes, biggest angels of all standing serious with the Annunciation. The bands bur-burped, the crowds lined the streets admiring the halos and wings; shoulder to shoulder we swept along. Finally, halted in the crowd, a little boy asked for our torch, and it was handed over. George blew out the fire that immediately ensued, and so we were released from the magic spell.

      Reality Check, please.

      The spectators milled about, eating whatever, watching the dancing figures of huge frame and papier-mâché puppets, within which young men twirled. Their puppets of mustachioed men and pink-cheeked women bobbed and turned, approached the circled crowd, retreated; someone ignited firework wheels; I protected my hair with my rebozo.

      Instead of waiting for Midnight Mass in The Cathedral, George and I headed back toward our apartment, by way of Santo Domingo, where an earlier mass was already in progress. I listened for a while to the song and response in Spanish. Then we all exchanged the Christmas Kiss of Peace, the traditional embrace, handshakes. When the congregation began to move forward to take Communion, I left. I arrived home to find George ahead of me, eating a sandwich.

      On Christmas day I returned to the zócalo. On my way down I spotted Elisabeta on her bicycle heading toward the hardware shop; a mother riding side-saddle behind her daughter on a motor bike. The markets are open.

      The zócalo stalls were beginning their business; a few food vendors were already stirring meat and chilling the bottles of Coca-Cola. In the area of the south side of the Cathedral, the fireworks and platforms were gone; one of those mysterious feats of setting up and taking down that are common here. Instead, in the swept open area, a few raggedy-ass little boys played at baseball.

      I found my friend Virginia in her clothing stall, sitting on the floor with her two children, eating a cactus fruit. She was wearing her saleswoman clothes: an indigenous wool wrap long skirt and a madly-striped red over-blouse. Her little girl also wore the over-blouse; beneath it showed the ruffles of her dress. Virginia and I had made an agreement to exchange English/Spanish lessons. Today she explained to me that she buys her stock of blouses and pants from a woman in her village. She pays as little as possible, and sells them in the market for as much as she can. “For example”, she said, “I bought those pants for fifteen, and I'll sell them for thirty.” So I began with the numbers, twenty, thirty, forty, fifty...

      Sadly our lesson came to an end when her little girl fell into a fountain. She was pulled out wailing, damp and chilled. Virginia took the child into the stall, comforted her, and changed her into a little jersey pants set topped with a matching blouse with Mickey on the front, and then a sweater. We arranged to meet again next week.

      I went to eat. Fearless. I sat at a stall and ate first a Styrofoam cupful of corn soup with lime juice, cheese and chili powder. Great. I followed up with an empenada stuffed with cheese and squash flowers; watched the cook behind her comal, flanked by her husband. Seated on the bench next to me was a young Mexican woman from Vera Cruz. I asked them how they had liked the Coca-Cola Tree and polar bears. The cook had no opinion; she is professional and so busy cooking she has never gone half a block down the street to see the zócalo display. The Vera Cruz woman thinks that Coca-Cola advertises too much, to which the husband and wife agree. But she had no bad feelings about the polar bears and snowmen, which don’t replace the Nativity scene. I drank a bowl of heavily-sugared coffee Mexican style, and chewed my empenada. The conversation wound down. “There have never been polar bears here,” they told me, “nor snow”. “Never?” I inquired. “No, never,” they insisted, “not in the history of Oaxaca, nor in the history of Mexico.”

      “But do you have snow in the United States?” I admitted that we do. “And do you miss it?” I admitted that I do not. “The climate in Oaxaca is very nice, no?” Yes, I agreed, it's very nice.

      We parted with pleasant wishes for a Happy Christmas. By the time I reached our street, the day’s thumping bands and truckloads of angels were already in motion, although I could not tell where they were going. The sound of the music followed into our apartment, seemingly coming from every direction.