Two men on a bench in a rural part of South Tyrol are approached by a posh fellow (the whole deal, white trousers, buttoned shirt, kashmere sweater over the shoulders).
The fellow inquires, in Italian, no less, the shortest way to the *autostrada*. The men just sit and stare. He asks again, a bit louder, this time. No reaction.
Puzzled, the fellow tries it in English. "Do you know the shortest way to the highway?" Again, the men give no sign of understanding.
Getting agitated, the fellow tries several different languages, German, French, even Spanish and Croatian. The men muster him, but do not answer to his multilingual approach in the least.
Finally, the fellow gives up and leaves, visibly frustrated.
After he's gone, the one old man turns to the other. "That was a bright fellow, huh? So many languages."
"Meh," replies the other. "His Spanish was terrible. And anyways, what good did it do to him?"
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