The voice rang out in the air conditioned air.

“GRANDE!”

“Yes, grande coffee,” the other voice responded at a more appropriate level.

“GRANDE!” the hands indicated the size animatedly. “GRANDE! GRANDE DRIP… DRIP COFFEE”

“Okay, and your name.”

The accent was subtle and clean. This was Starbucks after all. They usually hire English speakers for the tourist clientele.

I mean to be honest, great coffee exists everywhere in Portugal. Get an espresso, or doble café for only 50 cents. Why bother with the familiar when you can have the real thing.

But then why was I here? Waiting to order behind the loud and obnoxious upturned collar wearing, flip flop causal dude with his brutal voice and North American accent.

Wasn’t I the same as he? Even if I wore my alternative clothes, had ink upon my skin, and attempted to muddle some Portugese on occasion.

“I SAID GRANDE!”

No this was not the same as me. He pushed his frame over the counter, smiling a self assured and condescending smile, assuring the lady behind the bar that he was the real deal. His cocky attitude must have worked on some other witless young lady. Another girl stood off to the side and admired his ordering skills. He triumphantly marched over to her with a saunter that she crooned for.

I visibly shook my head, and tsk-tsked in disgust. I was two behind the line and was so self aware. I treaded lightly while in foreign lands, I tried to do as the locals do, I hung out at hostels and drank cheap wine for goodness sake. Starbucks aside, it was a guilty pleasure.

I think the girl caught me shaking my head and muttered it in his ear. He looked back at me and smiled. It was surprisingly genuine and unencumbered. But that upturned collar, it got me every time.

I looked away in disgust and moved up to the counter. My righteous indignation to show that I was not the same visitor who knew no better.

“Grande, Grande Americano…” I muttered

C.

Judge not.