Creative
Open to the scorching mediterranean sun, he stands where two narrow alleyways meet, and open up to the cobblestone, corner cafes, water fountains and busy mums that characterise the town square.
Leo slumps off his backpack, weighing a tonne, filled with miscellaneous objects poking into the lining like a sack of potatoes, (Kinda redundant don't you reckon; otherwise take out the "weighing a tonne" as it's unnecessary for the plot) and a french dictionary wedged into one of it’s pockets. Paired with his strawberry blonde locks, kept off his face with a makeshift bandana, and lanky legs, it was a look typical for a backpacker, but foreign to the olived skinned ladies and belly-heavy men sat from the safeguard of their chosen lunchtime destination. (Your opening paragraph, while setting the mood, is also a good chance for you to introduce the discovery concept that will be vital for the rest of the story. A typical band 6 creative will usually start with a discovery concept in their opening paragraphs, and then for the rest of the story, explore the significance and impact of this discovery on your character)
He approaches a popular restaurant it seems. (Good chance for you to show that it's popular and not tell us it's popular.) Red and white tables, and a delectable scent of local cuisine drifting on the dry air. Quintessential Europe, he thought. Truffles lined across a stone slab, venison browned and sliced, linguine twisted and twirled in sauce.
He slumps off his backpack rather noisily. A faint murmur of conversation, and birds that jet across the town, fill his silence as he reads up on local attractions and must-have experiences from a travel guide.(I'm still not seeing the discovery concept that strongly. Make it explicit, or make the subtlety stronger!)
A man with a meticulously tweaked moustache waltzes over to his table, and speaks out in some tongue that he cannot understand.
“Hello…?” offers Leo, trying his luck.
“Bonjour” the man replies.
At least you tried, thinks Leo.
He creases his brows, and narrows his search to the menu du jour. Frantically searching the pamphlet, desperate for something other than the local dialect. Panick. (Nice! I like your sentence control. Effective!)
The man motions towards Leo, speaking unfamiliar words.
He pushes back in his seat, glancing side to side, seeing the residents looking up from their newspapers, and over their artisan spectacles. They pass vitriolic remarks and chuckle from the cusp of their wine glass like the devils in disguise he felt they were at that moment. (A bit too much telling and not enough showing I feeel. Balance the two out more effectively because as of now, you're too direct.)
… Leo sits on his bed, still, gazing out of his small sash window into the vineyards and roads drawn onto the earth, not quite joining up from hill to hill, but he felt like he knew they shared the same path. (A bit long and a bit too direct again.) He thought of the borders he had passed (usually illegally), planes he had caught excitedly and bags he had packed nervously. Smiling at his rucksack, rather, daydreaming, his attention was caught by that dictionary, that had been planted in the pocket of a loose zip. He grabbed it’s tattered and crinkled spine like prey and opened it to page 1. Dashing between the pages, leaping from noun to pronoun to conjunction to adverb, his heart was beating out of his chest. As the sunlight cast a dim purple onto the pages, he lay (You're mixing between past and present tense; stick to one tense for the story) his head back onto his pillow and stared out his window with a blazing fire within him, and a brain teeming with fresh vocabulary.
Opening the sash window to a stream of warm, wheaty air that tickles his nostrils, Leo feels the pleasant warmth of the morning sun caress his skin. The daffodil on his window sill smiles at him. (I'm not sensing a strong reader relationship with Leo, just a small nitpick.)
He strides down the dark foyer of the apartment, and pushes the door open with assertion. The sleepy cobblestone alleyways are busy with morning sprite and energy. (I love this imagery!) He merges into the river of men, women and children, walking, wicker-basket in hand, towards the gravity of fresh weekly produce and goods.
Weaving in and out of the crowds, (Repetitive) dodging large bouquets and fresh piles of sourdough stacked like pebbles, lavender tied at the waist, kilos of local olives bobbing in their sweet oil. (Not a complete sentence; be careful with this!) Two podgy men barter over a punnet of strawberries, like two hippos in mating season, bellowing bestial tones and spasming (Not the best word but it'll suffice their arms to the sounds that run off their lips. The church bell chimes over the cobblestoned (Repetitive) town square that is transformed into a maze of fresh produce and eagle-eyed locals every Sunday.
The language feels foreign, but there is a romance in their noise. Something attractive that invites Leo to try out his own as he approaches a man behind a striped umbrella and a stack of attractive fruit.
“Bonjour” Leo offers.
The farmer replies.
He scans an array of plump tomatoes, figs and oranges.
His lips open and voice a choreography of phrases the farmer seems to comprehend. Like bags of gold, the farmer hands over half a kilo of juicy, golden figs - locally grown.
The two men smile, and bade each other goodbye; a fair deal.
He finds a quiet, verdant spot, overlooking the stone houses that skirt the provincial hillside. Leaning against a tree trunk, he pulls out his dictionary and opens to ‘F’.
Searching with his index, he comes across 'fig' in italics.
Noun. A soft pear-shaped fruit...
The translation reads “figue”, and he chuckles over the simplicity
Thinking little of it, he grins and bites into the juicy fruit, indulging in it’s delightful nectar.