when you’re informed that you’re dining in a restaurant of a part of the turkish mafia you tend to shake hands, wave when you walk by and make nice.
if tapped on the shoulder by a rugged looking gentleman wearing all black clothes you tend to wonder if you have done something wrong or if your time is up.
the shoulder tap was followed by a deep male voice attatched to a burly face, leather jacket and full euro mustache. the voice said ”lemme ask you von qwestchun. did you make that t-shirt yourself?” ”no,”i said. ”are you a blackshmidt?” ”yes,” i said. ”me too,”he offered. that was all that was said, until my friend stepped in and continued the conversation. this guy had done traditional blacksmithing, offshore welding with hundreds of hours of work each week, and all manner of metalwork and construction. now because he had overworked his back, knees, arms, etc he was fixing air tools—easier work. he was plainspoken and direct, offering possible places to look for work; if i didn’t mind shoeing horses i could even make good money or find welding work for crane companies. hands were shaken and names exchanged, and just by wearing a metals conference shirt i had inadvertently networked.