Jonathan C. Lewis
Author and Artist
My Eyes Glazed Over
A fictional travelogue; four minutes to read.
In Puebla, walking outdoors under the savage midday sun is like sightseeing inside a kiln. My eyes blur. My lips are parched, cracking. Cross-cultural awareness is boiled out of me.
Beside looking for shade, I’m looking for presents for my two kids. I want to buy them something uniquely from Puebla without reminding them that, day to day, I can’t keep up with their latest pastimes, favorite colors, fashion preferences—or their clothing sizes. Pottery seems a safe bet.
Every souvenir store flirts with me. Like ugly marriages, at first they are full of discovery, then delight, then devotion, then disappointment, then divorce. Gaudy ceramics catch my eye, but upon inspection prove as distasteful as a wormless bottle of mezcal.
Puebla is a citywide advertisement for the town’s Talavera ceramic shops. Ceramic tiling adorns buildings, church towers, hotel lobbies, eateries, museums and garden walls. Visual bling for the masses.
Delirious from the heat, I’ve started muttering under my breath. When I run out of things to say to myself, I switch to talking with shopkeepers. The world over salesclerks will chat up the lone tourist, a customer-in-the-making.
Before my skin glazes to a sienna finish, I escape into Uriarte Talavera. Oasis-like, the cool, organic scent of greenery envelops me. Drooping palm fronds hang over a garden courtyard with a fountain gurgling into a pool of lily-padded water. Ceramic wall murals lower my temperature with their cooling colors.
Prior to shopping, the free factory tour takes me through a warren of studios, pottery wheels, drying areas and artisan cubicles—an ingenious assembly line intermixing efficiency with handmade piece work. For the crime of shoddiness or outright ugliness about a third of Uriate’s pottery is smashed to smithereens, then the potshards are bulk sold by weight.
Pointing to an old kiln, my guide boasts, “This kiln has been used since 1824, the year Uriate was founded. Our designs date to the 16th century. We are the longest continuously operating factory in Mexico.” Unfolding a shy grin, he adds, ‘I don’t count the Aztecs who made tequila.”
In the gift shop, for Ben I find a multi-colored tile with a starburst design—a beer coaster for his college apartment; for Brittany, a lustrous, pastel blue bowl—a small change caddy for her bedroom dresser. No guessing at clothing sizes.
A salesclerk with shimmery black hair—Rosa, according to her name tag—asks in heavily accented, grammatically flawless, very polite English, “May I carry your items to the cashier?”
I nod yes and, then thinking only of my teacher’s salary, blurt out, “Is there a discount for larger purchases?”
From the offended look on her face, I reflexively step back. Fearing I have violated local etiquette and expecting to see her brothers coming at me with clubs, I look around.
“Oh, sir, I’m sorry. Uriate craftspeople don’t haggle,” Rosa declares with the conviction of courtroom witness under oath. Her pointed stare shouts, “Gringo, this isn’t a tourist trap. We know our market value.”
As if instantly sunburned, my face turns red. I quickstep to the cashier, pay and withdraw into the blistering sunlight.
For sure I’ll tell my kids this story. A dad’s “teachable moment” about reading the room and respecting local artisans is my souvenir.
