The man wore a Scottish style hat and spoke with an accent that recalled the isles, but here in Budapest that meant nothing. From his backpack he pulled a sweet white cat with a brave little face. This seemed like the sort of thing a local would do, accent or not. The cat was the belle of the establishment, loved and carried by each bartender in turn. After it made the rounds the cat sat on the bar alongside a glass of pilsner that towered over it. It crouched amongst the moist rings left by pints of beer and licked milk from its little bowl.
He looked down the bar at this scene and as he did, his view was blocked as the augmented lips of a middle aged Russian tourist closed around her liver sandwich. She bit down and tore away a chunk. As she leaned back to chew he could see the cat again, now licking its moist paw.