Rory adjusted his duffel on his shoulder as he kept walking. No other English speakers had surfaced, but a few people had been kind enough to look over the address and literally point him in the right direction. At least he hoped it was the right direction. Ruddy hells, but he wished this was Éire. He'd have no need for translation in his native Connemara, no matter what language the other person spoke.

But there, this was the area he was looking for, wasn't it? As he paused to inspect a nearby sign, the Irishman became aware that he'd attracted attention. A group of men on the walk outside a nearby building were talking amongst themselves as they watched him with undisguised interest.

That's odd. Not unnerving, no, the singer had spent too much time on stage for that. But puzzled he was, he didn't look that out of the ordinary, and Breaker Street's CD wouldn't have a European release for some time yet. Surely they couldn't have recognized him?

At any rate, perhaps they could help. Reaching into his pocket for the now-creased address, Rory started to ask if anyone spoke English, only to be interrupted by one of the younger men breaking into a spate of Italian. When all he could do was stand there looking befuddled, the man tapped him on the chest and said something that sounded like rehrosso.

Rory shook his head in confusion. "I'm sorry, but I don't understand."