Switzerland
"Well, uh…" Mike muttered, "the only way to get to know a people is to dissect the stereotypes about them. We live on this giant modern planet, and yet we don't know shit about each other, bro."
"That sounds offensive to the extreme," Inna sighed, eyelids drooping, "but sadly, my co-host speaks a fragment of truth."
The Client gave a noncommittal so-so hand gesture, impossible to read. Meanwhile, his brother-in-law bolted into the pastry shop to stock up on sweets for the boss.
Inna went on:
"The Internet, Television, Books, the ability to travel abroad, guests from other countries—and still, we hardly know one another. So let's examine a few stereotypes about different nations…"
"Harder, baby! Let's cut the bullshit and spill what everyone really thinks about everyone else! Rev that engine!" Mike barked.
"So, first off: Swiss banks. Nobody knows their crown-level security except the global elites who stash money there. And the Swiss themselves—who stash their lifetime supply of chocolate."
The Client suddenly squinted at the assistant.
"Your face looks familiar. Haven't we met before?"
"Chufus," the assistant shrugged.
"And what's that supposed to mean? Translate, please."
"He said he saw you as the greedy, lazy asshole back when you all met in the books European Buzz and Touch My Freedom. Study the lore better, amateur! Please, don't unsubscribe from our fan-service…" Mike blurted, instantly regretting his own insolence.
"I forgive you… for now." The Client wagged a finger at him, then stared at the assistant again. "Nope, still don't remember. I'll have to read those. Are they e-books?"
"No, parchment—made from ox hides," Inna eagerly clarified.
"Wow!" The Client smacked his lips in delight. "I love exotic stuff. I'll head to Baghdad, rummage through their markets, maybe buy some more. So—what about Russia?"
Russia
"So, what about Russia?" the guides exchanged a quick glance—then blurted out in unison:
"Putin. Yes, Putin. Also: Putin, Putin."
They began competing over who could say the name more times.
"Stop!" The brother-in-law finally broke his silence. All eyes locked on him. Embarrassed for breaking his one narrative privilege, he lowered his head and started handing out alms, as if to atone for his sin.
"You are correct, dear sir," Inna nodded. "Russia has many curious things beyond politics."
"Count them on your fingers, darling," Mike urged, and she gleefully did as he listed:
"First, the matryoshka dolls—those wooden toys nested one inside another."
"Chufus," the assistant added.
"Yes, exactly. Like prisoners stacked in parallel universes. Then: bears—the second most numerous population group in Russia."
"Outstanding citizens, loyal taxpayers, and patriots," Inna chimed in.
Mike wasn't done:
"And balalaikas—that's their musical instrument, played by these furballs after a hard day's work. Plus, Russia's got random crap like ushanka hats and felt boots."
"Sorry, what exactly are those?" the Client frowned.
Mike looked lost, so his wife jumped in:
"It's freezing there, so local fashion houses design these couture pieces for survival."
"Ahhh, brands," the Client nodded knowingly. "I always dress sharp, as you can see."
He was in flip-flops, shorts, bare-chested, with a giant pendant hanging over his belly. But style—it's either there or it's not.
The brother-in-law returned, handing everyone packs of instant noodles with chopsticks.
"They sell this in the candy shop?" Super Mason asked, baffled.
"All the muffins got exported," the Client sighed, motioning for the group to move on. "Time's not rubber, after all."
They passed a blazing, neon-lit sports complex. The Client didn't care, but the guides stopped deliberately:
"They play soccer in there."
"That's like football… but soccer?"
"You're absolutely right!" Inna gave him a thumbs-up. "It's the favorite sport on many continents. And the Portuguese club that trains there is no exception."