Many years ago I bought this gourd bowl from and old craftsman in Mexico, in a small beach town called Puerto Escondido on the coast of the Pacific Ocean. He was walking slowly up the beach peddling his wares which he carried in a bag thrown over his shoulder, and I was sitting in a café on the sand. I was the only guest, and I was nursing a bowl of ice cream while enjoying a bout of early afternoon laziness—“pensando” as they say in Spanish “en la inmortalidad del cangrejo.” Thus I was defenseless when the old man passed by, and the price he asked—in combination with his low key salesman charm—made it impossible to turn him down, so I didn’t.
Many, many years later, every time I look at his bowl I am stunned by its beauty. Regretfully I don’t know the old man’s name or anything about him, but I tip my hat respectfully, while in shame I wish I paid him more than I did.
