The drive from Mexico City to Puebla takes about an hour and
a half, in decent traffic. I was on my way to visit the International Museum of
the Baroque and the opening of Clay Between Two Seas from Baghdad to Puebla,
the third stop on a tour that included the Franz Mayer Museum (Mexico City) and
the Crow Collection of Asian Art (Dallas, Texas).
I’d noticed the dust a breakfast: a thin layer of dust
covered the table where I ate. I’m sure it settled just a few moments before I
sat down. On the drive, up and over the mountains between Mexico City and
Puebla we met this dust again. The country side looks unseasonable dry, I
think, it should be glossy and green. Spring. The grasses and trees stood thirsty and parched.
We motor along, and I puzzle at the curiosities along the
way: the “well stations” every few miles: at one I see a woman washing her
hair; the immensity of village after village, little black water tanks on the
top of each home: can that possibly be enough water for a family? I ponder; the absence
of mountain retreats or trail heads.
Just inside of the toll booth as we near Puebla amid the
thousands of homes, dry and dusty, a tall skyscraper stands mid-construction: an anomaly and a
contrast to the tired landscape around it. This tower is in the middle of
nowhere. The contrasts of Puebla begin to give themselves away.
Before we reach the brand-new Hilton Garden Hotel just
across from the International Museum of the Baroque I see at least six new
towers in Puebla City (the new section of a very old town dating to 1520) that
have popped up like beanstalks since my visit one year ago. The architecture,
perhaps inspired by the verve of Pritzker Prize winner Toyo Ito’s masterpiece at the Museum of the
Baroque is whimsical and nervy: the lines of the building bulging out on
unexpected floors.
The familiar is nearby, though: off in the distance through a curtain of dust I can barely see El Popo the guardian volcano of these sacred lands. I see the silhouette of the church at the top of the pyramid in Cholula. I see the markings of the old downtown, and debate the conveniences of a new American hotel versus the charm of the colonial city.
Just before the opening Emilia and I meet our driver in the porte cochere of the hotel to cross the ten-lane highway
to the undulating museum just on the other side. As I situated dress and coat
and closed the door, I look up and see an old Mexican farmer walking across the
valet lane, pulling a Shetland pony. They hustled against a backdrop of traffic
and the hike/bike lanes (Puebla innovation) weaving in and around the highway. I watched the
shimmer of the horse’s yellow mane and tale and wondered out loud “where could
they possibly be going?”. The city changes but some old horses still have to
get home.
A few minutes later we arrived to a reception of dozens of
media: reporters and photographers, TV and cameramen. Unexpectedly I was
ushered to stand with the giants of this project: the Mayor, the Governor’s
wife, the Ministers of Education, Culture and Tourism, a few other luminaries
and my dear friends the Museum Director and the Exhibition Curator. While I
feigned attention through several speeches in Spanish (must learn Spanish immediately)
I nervously wrote a speech in my head just in case I should be called to the
podium to speak. Curiosity, Compassion and Companions…Curiosity, Compassion…Companions.
My mnemonic device only made trying to remember the order and intention harder.
I took some deep, mindful breaths, re-positioned my hands and listened
fervently for my name in Spanish. It did not come.
Next, I found myself standing at a white ribbon, with scissors in my hand cutting open
the entrance to the exhibition. I love Mexican ceremony. We then followed the curator and at the case with the loan
objects from the Crow Collection I had my day in the sun: the curator and the
Minister of Culture asked me to share our role in the project. Flash bulbs
popping, cameras going, the buzz of reporters wanting one more photograph of
these leaders –fortunately my spontaneous speech writing paid off, and the Crow
Collection objects lit a little light for these museum goers in Puebla.
Hours later after the festivities came to a close and I
encountered a meaningful lesson from my friend and the Ambassador (also the new Director of the Baroque: Ambassador Jorge Alberto Lozoya), I looked out at
the night lights of Puebla from the fourteenth floor of the hotel. I looked at
my dress and heels, vintage clutch and necklace sitting on the desk in the crisp room—fragrant
with the scent of recent and fast construction.
I thought about the Shetland pony
and wondered which light in this long dark landscape of glowing lights must mark his little stable—his home at least for a
little while.
