[The nearby person in this case is by all accounts at first glance a generic lanky teenager, save the gray-blue hair. His clothes are illfitting but clean, solidly black from head to toe, with some partly worn slogan on it in bland white text. Ignore the evidence of what must be terrible allergies by all the scratches and gouges across his throat and parts of his face, they look self-inflicted.

Columbo and his stoutland are studied for a long, looong moment, the gastly bobbing at his side giving a particularly wide grin before he gives a shrug and steps closer to look at the map the man is holding.

Then reaches out to flip it upright between three careful fingers.]

American, huh? If we were where I was about an hour ago, I'd say about nine thousand kilometers.

[His voice is a dry, unpleasant rasp. Maybe he too, smokes! But at his age?? If he's twenty it'd be a shock. But for all that his tone is abrupt and bearing not exactly ... friendly, he doesn't also seem to be trying to be hostile.]

Now, who the hell knows. You been on a ten hour plane ride lately, old man? I haven't. Never been anywhere that plays background music without any speakers around either.

[His gaze shifts to the stoutland.]

...Cool dog though. Want to trade? I got a balloon without a string.