I'm going back to italics.
Wandering sighed as he sat in his hotel room, sweat dripping down the folds of the pasty, disfigured face he hid behind his hood. Though a little ocean breeze came in through the darkness of the open window, it was still far too hot for Wandering. The only comfort came from a slow moving rotary fan on the ceiling.
They hate me because I'm different, Wandering thought. Because I look different and can barely speak the language and come from a place far, far away. And they call themselves civil. And they make a show of being fair and open. But I see the way they stare as I walk down the street. As I dance. I see their forced smiles, their happy greetings, yes. But I also hear their hushed whispers. Their clucking tongues.
Wandering closes his eyes, sighs, and drifts off to sleep.