"How do you like it here in Barbados?" he asks, setting his drink on the counter beside me. I mentally trip over his accent and offer one of those small ah yeah definitely kind of smiles you give someone when you’ve said “what?” too many times.
He sees through the smile—of course—so he laughs and starts speaking faster, needling me with his elbow before I finally catch the word tourist and manage a quick quip to try and defend myself.
It’s a lost cause. On this island? I am a tourist.
From guides to rants.