Clementine Oranges- The Immigrant- part three

Last night I found myself in a merciless grocery check out line and standing patiently behind me was the typical looking grandfather, holding in one hand a case of clementine oranges and in the other a cloth re-use able bag full of groceries. He was eligible for the "Express Line"; 16 items or less, but we were all, non- express and express people, mixed up in a ridiculous excuse of a line heading all in the same direction.
I observed the old man as he would place his case of clementines down on any perch possible in his vicinity and as the line moved, so did he.. picking up his orange treasure, and placing it forward on another perch.
His fragile hand could not hold the weight, as I quickly understood. The other patrons, however, didn't get it and they began to feel threatened that their place in line was being compromised by Grandfather's wicked strategy with his oranges. So threatened was one "punk" that he began addressing his elder in a very impolite manner. You can imagine. My "Italian" adrenaline starts to pump through my heart and I in the most mild way I could muster, explain to the young punk that his adversary was simply relieving the weight of the clementines and that he was not trying to manoeuvre ahead. At that moment Grandfather looks at me and I clearly realize that he does not understand what I and punk-boy are discussing but does know it's about him. I say, ..."English, Italian,???..." He replies ".. Arabic." Damn I think, of the few languages I do speak, Arabic is not one of them. With his gentle eyes he looks at me for guidance. I take his case of clementines, put it in my buggy and with hand motions (universal language) I explain that he's coming with me. The punk, fed up with this whole mess, leaves his three items and departs the scene. Thank goodness. Caught a break.
As we inch ever so slowly towards the liberating noise of cash register scanners,we come to the fork. Grandfather must go in the Express now and I must continue to the seeming insurmountable non express mountain. But... once again I realize he doesn't understand... Express and Non Express. After several attempts of warding off "budders" that think they can get in front of my newly acquired immigrant friend, I dig my heels in and decide that he is not going to get ripped off. Back it up people..it's his turn. Finally arriving at the express, I take his precious clementines, leave my buggy unprotected as well as my patiently earned spot in line, and accompany him to the right cash. Phew.. he made it.. he's good.
I turn to take my spot back in line hoping someone with a heart will have understood why I left my spot in the first place and low and behold a good Polish man that had been observing and listening the whole time saved my spot and my buggy. He grins and opens his hand saying, without uttering a word.,"Here you go." I say, "Thank you," with a grateful nod... and we proceed.
At that moment it could not have been more clear to me that arguments, attacks or insults sometimes stem from very simple misunderstandings. How scary most it be for an immigrant living in a country, not quite sure of the customs, the unwritten rules that we take for granted and not being able to explain yourself or ask for an explanation? That case of clementines was just heavy. Just setting it down. No intention of taking anything from anyone... and which line?? Are they not all the same??
Patience and tolerance in our cynical world is what we need more of. Truly.
I hope Grandfather enjoyed his clementines. I mean really savoured them. I'm sure they were worth the effort.
To me, he definitely was.