Alberto’s cobbler‘s hands were wrinkled, but not yet arthritic.

“I make shoes,” he intoned firmly, his accent was heavy. “I make good shoes for you.” His chest stuck out proudly in a way that only a man’s with two married daughters could.

I looked down the row of small shops that cuddled together on one of many winding ways in the city’s old quarter knowing that what would come out of my mouth next would not make a bit of sense to him — not in his broken English, or my non-existent Polish.

“I make commercials,” I smiled back.

He grinned with understanding. A moment later, his brow clenched into questioning ridges, “Yes, but what do you do?”

The earnest lines on his face waited for an answer. I drew a box in the air with my fingers.

“Commercial shipping is good business,” he assented, clapping my shoulder. “You will sell my shoes in America!”

“Yes,” I said.