On Thursday morning during our trip to Cabo, Ralph and I decided to go to the glass-blowing factory, having fallen in love with nice glasswork while in Venice. Since Thursday was also going to be the night that the two couples on the trip split for dinner to have a romantical evening, Ralph and I both put on less tourist-bum looking clothes in case we didn’t make it back to the room to freshen up before dinner.
The map that our hotel gave us showed the factory very close by, so we decided to just walk over. After one block past the main tourist drag, we were getting into some pretty shabby-looking territory. We weren’t too concerned though, because the glass factory was just right ahead, right? bah! We walked almost twice as far as we needed to and still nothing. Trying not to look too lost and even more out of place than we already did, we stood on one street corner and tried to discretely look down the streets to see if anything looked like it would be a glass-blowing factory.
“What are you looking for?”
We turn around and a man with a mild limp, carrying a 9-iron, is walking in the opposite direction of where we were originally heading.
“Glass-blowing factory,” I answer. He waves us over to follow him.
“Tommy Montoya,” he introduces himself, shaking both of our hands. We tell him our names and start walking with him, Ralph standing between me and Tommy-holding-a-9-iron.
Tommy: So where are you guys from?
Ralph: Nevada. Not Las Vegas though (which seems to be the only place in Nevada that most people think of).
Tommy: Aaaah. Are you Japanese (looking at me)?
me: No, I’m Filipino (I didn’t think telling him my true Filipino-Russian mix would matter).
Tommy: Aaaahh, sayanora! And what about you (looking at Ralph)? Full gringo?
Ralph: Pretty much, yeah. Full gringo.
Tommy: German?
me: Mainly Irish (I responded because Ralph isn’t much of a talker when it’s someone he doesn’t know and I didn’t want the guy to take offense).
Tommy: Irish! A salam malakim (to Ralph)! Sayanora (to me)!
It’s quiet for a minute. Tommy is walking with a swagger, Ralph is keeping an eye on the golf club and I’m keeping track of our surroundings. It’s easy to still see part of the road we were initially on that leads back to the strip, but the streets are becoming more narrow and less paved. I tell myself that the second we start turning down alleys, I’m going to try and gracefully bow us out of the rest of our little walk. At one point, in the middle of streets of dilapidated houses and mini-markets, a much nicer, well-taken-care-of house is situated along our route. As we pass it, Tommy crosses himself.
Tommy: Sooo, that’s a nice shirt (he says to Ralph). Is it Tommy Bahama?
Ralph (chuckling): No, it’s not Tommy Bahama.
Tommy: It looks nice, expensive. Are you sure it’s not Tommy Bahama?
Ralph (chuckling again): No, “Target.”
Tommy: Awww, c’mon it’s Tommy Bahama. Hey, do you want to go to the moon? Do you want to feel good?
Ralph: No, we’re good, thank you.
Tommy: C’mon, you must be looking for something, yes?
Ralph (chuckling): Just the glass factory, thank you. We’re good.
A little bit more walking, while Tommy keeps vaguely offering things to “take care of ” us, or yelling authoritatively in spanish to guys going into mini-markets and who nod their responses back. The mini-markets are getting fewer and far between, which is making me look for the best way back to the original street should we need to get there quickly.
Tommy: C’mon man, what you guys want? I have it. Ice, weed, X, anything. What do you guys want?
Ralph: We really just want to get to the glass factory.
Tommy: Meth, you like meth?
Ralph: Nope, just the glass factory.
Thankfully, we turn a corner and the glass factory is right there, coming out of nowhere like Brigadoon. Shuttle vans going in and out. Tommy yells something in spanish to all the drivers that pass by us. We stop before the courtyard gates.
Tommy: See? I got you here safely. Maybe you should give me a nice tip, yes? [Ralph, already reaching into his pocket, is taking out money.] Are you sure I can’t take care of you, amigo?
Ralph: No, but thank you for taking us here.
Tommy: No problem, amigo. You let me know if you want me to take you on the way back or take you to get some weed or acid. All the cab drivers know my name and have my card if you need me. [Holding out his hand to shake] I’m Tommy Montoya of Tommy Montoya Enterprises. I’ll get you anything you need.
Then Tommy walks back the way we just came, the sun glinting off the head of the 9-iron as he swings it around with one arm.
me: How much did you give him?
Ralph: 100 pesos. Enough to not show disrespect, but little enough to show we weren’t scared.