Portugal
"Cristiano Ronaldo—he's got the biggest Instagram account in the world!" the brother-in-law blurted, shrinking under their burning stares, nearly tripping into the arms of a passing pug.
"That bastard's stealing our lines!" Mike barked, while his wife scrambled to smooth over yet another outburst.
The Client perked up:
"And what exactly did he do? I know he's a mega-celeb, but what for?"
"Do you need other reasons?!" Inna gasped. "He's famous for having a colossal number of followers! I admire the sheer scale of his personality. Magnificent! It's like he emerged straight from the Age of Great Geographical Discoveries—and surpassed it!"
"You're right, the Portuguese popped up in Shōgun as ancient sailors," the second guide nodded. "And they love fish. So, um, what else…"
Sensing the awkward lack of facts, Inna bounced on her heels and squealed:
"The sea! Greece has it too! Just a different one… or the same?"
Greece
"Just don't tell me about Zeus, Olympus, or the other gods. I've seen a ton of blockbusters about them—and I'm even on business correspondence with one of them," the Client warned right away. The guides exchanged pitiful glances.
"I'm impressed by your erudition and wide cinematic knowledge," Inna bowed politely. Even Super Mason begrudgingly bent his neck, acknowledging the man's cultured résumé.
"But there's also olive oil and amphoras," the guide tried, flashing a fact.
"Enough, gentlemen! I get it. What can you tell me about Latin America?" the Client cut him off.
Ivan, who was already pulling out a sombrero, froze. The sudden pressure of cultural appropriation crushed his chest. He staggered, vision darkening, and sank onto a bench. While the brother-in-law splashed ketchup from a vendor's bottle onto his face to revive him, the Client turned back to his guides.
"Which country in particular?" they asked.
"Argentina."
Inna squealed with delight and winked at her husband:
"That's right up my man's alley!"
Latin America: Argentina and Columbia
Mike rolled up the sleeves of his tuxedo, exposing rope-veined muscles with half-faded tattoos and little pen-mark crosses he'd scribbled as reminders. He coughed loud and gravely, then began:
"So, after the Nazis lost, they fled down there…"
A roaring engine drowned out the rest. When silence returned, he carried on:
"…and that's why some of the people there are blond, blue-eyed, and nothing like the original Latin Americans. The soap operas are mid, subjective taste of course—but their horror flicks? Absolute bangers."
"I didn't understand a word, but I've drawn my conclusions. Thank you. And Colombia? Just don't whip out cocaine. I've got my own dealers—I won't be trying your low-grade stuff." The Client stepped back.
"Cartel…" the guides whispered in unison, ducking as if their echo might trigger an avalanche from the distant mountains.
A man with slicked-back gelled hair, drooping mustache, faded teardrop tattoos, and a striped shirt over a white tee hurried past. Seeing their fearful stares, he threw up his hands:
"No, no, don't drag me into this! I'm from Yugoslavia—I work in real estate. Leave me out of your questions!"
He all but sprinted away, checking over his shoulder every few steps.
Relieved, the guides exchanged a triumphant high-five.
"Improvised moments always spice up the program!"
"No argument," the Client shrugged. But Inna quickly jumped in, worried he might try to hijack the show. After all, improvisation could expose the weak seams of their script—and the paying customer didn't need to know that.
So she took a deep, theatrical breath and dreamily announced: