puebla’s dusty treasures (and why my nose is still running)
the air in mercado del carmen today is doing that thing where it feels like someone dumped a bucket of warm soup on the cobblestones-humid, thick, and just this side of gross. i’m here with my usual kit: a tote bag that’s seen better days, fingers stained from ink and who knows what, and an eye for anything that whispers ‘1970s textile rebellion.’ this city’s humidity (66% today, which is basically a sauna for linen) turns every cotton shirt into a damp hug you didn’t ask for, and don’t get me started on how it makes mothball perfume the official scent of victory. i just checked and it’s the kind of damp that makes old thread sing a sad song, so if you’re planning to score a wool blazer, maybe bring a hairdryer and a prayer.
if your feet need a break, tlaxcala’s just a choked bus ride away, but good luck finding a seat that isn’t sticky. someone told me that the owner of ropa vieja once burned a batch of silk blouses ‘cause the dye bled-apparently, she’s a purist about ‘authentic fading.’ according to this yelp review, the place is ‘a treasure trove if you don’t mind elbow grease,’ which is code for ‘everything’s dusty and prices are negotiable.’ i poked around stall 7 where they sell rebozos so faded they’re practically ghosts. a lady with silver in her hair warned me: ‘the red ones were dyed with cochineal, but also maybe blood? who knows.’ not sure if that’s a selling point or a horror story.
i heard from a guy who sells broken cameras that the back room of la tienda de la esquina has boxes of emerald-green velveteen from the ‘80s that were smuggled out of a hotel renovation. but he’ll only show you if you buy his ‘lucky’ shot glass. the temp’s hanging at 10.5 but feels like 9.3 thanks to this damp-it’s the kind of cold that crawls up your sleeves and refuses to leave. today i scored a denim jacket with a hand-stitched eagle that might be political or just a drunk tailor’s dream.
for more on puebla’s textile scene, check out this deep-dive by a local historian who swears the city’s fabric patterns are coded messages from the revolution. as i left, the sky decided to drizzle just enough to make the cobblestones shiny and my hair a frizz halo. i stuffed my finds into the tote, cursing the humidity under my breath. some days, the hunt is less about the score and more about surviving the air. but tomorrow, i’ll be back-because somewhere in this damp, dusty maze, there’s a piece of fabric with a story that hasn’t been told yet. and also, my nose is still running.
