Prejudices

It was my second day in Argentina. I had to change hotels. I flipped over my stick file folder to locate the other hotel.
Satisfied that I was on the right path, I slapped the folder back into my rucksack and continued to walk. A heavy trolley bag being dragged over an uneven, brick-paved street was making a fluttering noise. I had clasped the handle of the bag with all my might. Internet tales of thefts and snatches implanted in my senses had got the better of me.
Suddenly, somebody screamed! I looked back. A tall, skinny guy was following me. His pace grew faster. So did mine. I wanted to outpace him. But, could I?
My hold on my bag couldn’t be any stronger. I could feel my heart all over my chest. Blood rushed through my body; my hands got redder.
He was now just a step behind me. A tap on shoulder and I froze! Ready to confront the goon, I turned around.
I looked up to an unshaven face with disgust. I could smell his yellow teeth barely visible behind his chapped lips. Clad in black, it seemed as if he had got his beanie drilled on purpose.
He was an anomaly in the Paris-esque streets of San Telmo. Nothing about him could possibly be endearing. My demeanor said it all. But he was used to it! I couldn’t figure out anything else. His words weren’t fathomable.
Suddenly, he put forward his hands and handed me something. It was my passport.
His gesture was anything but friendly. But, who cared now? I had stopped judging him. My countenance said it all.
“Paasaaportey,” he blurted. My Spanish was as good as my Greek. I reciprocated with the only Spanish word I knew. “Gracias.”
He smiled and bowed. I could no longer smell my condescension. I repeated myself. “Gracias.”
No reply. A selfless lad was now, on his way.
I was watching him go when a strong gust of cold stream bashed my face. “Oh! I am running late.” I took out my folder and buried in it my prized possession.
As I walked towards Waldorf Hotel, I began noticing ‘people.’ I subconsciously, started greeting them with smile. I failed to heed that the wheels of my trolley bag had started gliding as I passed by La Casa Rosada. The architectural marvel looked Buenos Aires-esque.
“Prejudices sometimes make us miserable. Should we be too low to fall for it?”