In Cabo I learned not to look out the windows
of restaurants. A streetward glance
while waiting for your order was a summons
for men with guitars or women with armfuls
of scarves or boys shrilling whistles,
hands out for pesos. I developed
blinders, head down in my menu,
staring into the bowls of chips
or at the tequila bottles lined up
above the bar, busying myself
in detailed conversation that fended off
invasion. I learned to avoid the inner harbor
on the days the cruise ships docked,
days when the vendors would swarm
over the cobbles armed with Polaroids
and sombreroed iguanas, pottery, silver
bangles and other cheap lures, ducked past
the men hawking boat rides, avoided
stroking the blankets in the stalls;
that made vendors appear like genies.

Cleaning out closets and drawers for the garage sale
I found the small woven purse I'd purchased
in an open-air market. An unintentional touch
of the goods drew out ¿Es muy agradable, sí?
¿Quisieras comprarlo?* Embarrassed,
I'd paid full ticket price for two
after offending the saleswoman with my novice
offer. Its twin, which I sent to my daughter,
likely ended up at the thrift store
hanging next to a rope of papier-mâché
peppers. I put the guilt-bought bargain back in its place
on the shelf and grabbed the well-worn
bag next to it instead. No longer
an accidental tourist, I won't barter
the marked 50 cents down to 10.

*It's very nice, yes? You'd like to buy it?

June 2006