Sunday Scribblings, 'Where in the World?'

Wanderer
I’m in the market, finishing off the last bite of a brioche and espresso when I hear the unmistakable twang of American voices, rising to meet the language barrier.
The couple are identically dressed in khaki walking shorts and polo shirts; both have straw hats decorated with a sash of a national liquor distributor.
She’s wearing ungodly pink flip-flops. He’s chosen black socks and orthopedic walkers.
She’s holding some cheap trinket the vendors all put in the front of their tables (for just this reason) and he’s waving Euros around like a fan, speaking slow – and loud.
I toss back the last of the espresso, the last bite of sweet dough and wander over.
“Maybe I can be of some assistance?”
Both blink absently.
“I can tell you that particular item is $10 euro.”
“What business is it of yours, fella?” she barks, the skin of her six chins beginning to redden.
“Yeah, who fuckin’ asked you to butt is anyway?” he says, a lip extended and distorted from the pinch of chew.
“My apologies for the intrusion.”
And I begin wander off, the vendor’s eyes pleading for more assistance.
But I can’t. The anger rises like bile in my throat and I’ve got to slip away.
Deeper into the market, where the voices of sunburned homeland tourists begin to rise like an unholy chorus of demons.
I slip fingers over my ears, resolve to get my backpack from the hostel, travel deeper in-country.
Where an ex-patriot can find solitude from one’s native tongue.