I am sitting on the hotel terrace when a bunch of American hikers come along and sit at a neighboring table. For a while, their numbers grow as their tail catches up with the head. In the end, there are no less than eight of them. And they are quite loud. The longer they sit at their table, the louder they get, too. They feel ever more safe and secure in the new place, which only adds to my growing discomfort. After so many years in the States, it does not even cross my mind to smile in their general direction, let alone to start chatting with them. Instead, I am squirming in my chair. I am casting around as if for help. I am exasperated. I am eager to leave my table as soon as possible. The lasting legacy of George Bush Junior, I guess.