On our way to the coffee cart 
Edith noticed an older couple 
looking at a map of the Museum.

Where do you want to go? she said.

They didn’t understand. 
She gestured to the map—
Impressionist paintings? 

That’s all most tourists 
want to see. 

The man understood 
when she shortened
her question to Van Gogh…?  
Monet…?

He pointed to the five-dollar bill 
for her espresso, 
and gave her a matching one.

You don’t need to tip us
for giving directions, 

Edith handed back the money.
But they wouldn’t take it, 
and were backing away from us. 

Frustrated and sorry she’d started this—
we only get a fifteen-minute break, 
and still had to wait in the line,

she tried again, speaking slowly, 
P-a-i-n-t-i-n-g-s by M-o-n-e-t …?
 
When she said it so carefully 
we realized they’d heard ‘money’,  
and assumed in America anyone could say, 

‘Give me money!’

We laughed, tears running down our cheeks,
which convinced the terrified tourists 
Americans were also insane. 

They fled.