Lunch at McDonald's: Get me out of here!

When I first come to the USA, i went to McDonald's with a friend. It was around 1pm. I was sitting at a table, chatting with my friend, and drinking a soda.Then one of the employees came and started wiping the floor around us. I was so shocked. I looked at my friend very surprised. She started laughing at me.

"What is this?" I asked her, indignantly. "We are eating here and this person is blowing dirt on us? I need to get out of here."

My friend calmed me down and told me that it was normal. "You are new but you will be OK very soon," she said.

In my culture nobody blows dirt on you while you are eating. This was my first big shock when I came to the USA but now I don't even look at somebody who is cleaning the floor while I am eating. I simply eat and leave the place. I understand that, unless they clean, the next customer might not feel good about the place because it is dirty if they do not clean in between. It makes sense to me now because the place is open the whole day giving service, so it must be cleaned throughout the day.

-M from Ethiopa

No, not an escalator, please!

When I first arrived in Washington, my cousin took me to a shopping mall. I found it very exciting but I was terrified at the sight of the escalators. I had never seen an escalator before in my life and I absolutely refused to set foot on one. It was just too scary! My cousin became very annoyed with me because, every time we had to go up or down a floor, we had to look for an elevator. Elevators were not easy to find. Escalators are much more popular. I slowly became used to escalators but it took a while!

- Betty from Ethiopia

Speak up or else you are fired!

When I first started working in the US, I was very quiet. I never said anything to my colleagues and I never spoke at meetings.

One day my boss called me to his office. He was very upset with me. He told me that I would lose my job if I didn't change my behavior. I should talk with my co-workers during break time and I should speak up at meetings. I explained to him that I didn't know that I was behaving improperly. In my native culture, one gained respect from his co-workers by being quiet. I learned that this was not the case in the US. I had to change my ways immediately. It was not easy at first but I got used to it. Now I feel very comfortable talking with everyone.

- Haile from Ethiopia

Where is the Rest Room?

When I moved to the United States, I got a job as an assistant waiter at a Holiday Inn. One day a customer asked me where the restroom was. I didn’t know this word very well so I tried to guess its meaning. "Rest" means "sit" so I thought that this person was tired and needed a quiet area to sit in. So I took him out to the lobby and I showed him a big sofa. I thought he could sit there. It soon became obvious that I had not guessed correctly!

After that, when I didn't know the answer, I would ask my boss.

It is puzzling, however, why Americans call the bathroom a restroom in a public place and a bathroom in one's home.

Haile from Ethiopa

Laundry Etiquette in China

I was staying at a university hotel in Shanghai. One evening, I was preparing to leave for a classical music concert at the Shanghai Opera House.

Since I was meeting my group in the lobby, I thought it would be a perfect time to drop off my laundry at the desk. The university had provided a plastic laundry bag and a little blue slip to list the contents. I walked over to the desk and handed the lady my bag, along with the blue slip. Imagine my surprise as she proceeded to open the bag, empty out its contents on the top of the counter, and match every item to the list I had just given her. She was thorough, and, to make sure that she properly identified everything, she held each piece high up in the air and shook it.

I could anticipate that, sooner or later, she would get to my underwear. Just the thought of her waving my panties in front of my friends sent me into a panic. I asked her if she would mind taking care of this behind the counter, but she either didn't understand my English or just didn't see what my problem was.

The dreaded moment came. She dutifully picked up my panties one by one, held them up for everybody to see, and made a little mark for each on the blue slip. I was mortified. I was frantically looking for a button to push that would make me vanish.

Lessons learned: Concepts of privacy vary from place to place and even the most embarrassing situation is temporary.

- Nathalie

http://www.SpeakEZLanguages.com

Paying in an Italian (coffee) bar: How, when, where?

Italians enjoy drinking coffee in their bars, which are more snack bars than bars in the American sense. The first time I entered a bar, I realized that there was a certain etiquette to follow that was not at all like my experience in the States.

First, I had to go to the cashier and tell him/her exactly what I wanted. I would pay and be given a receipt.

Secondly, I would go to the counter and put my receipt down on the counter. I would usually put a small coin on it as a tip but this was not absolutely necessary. I would tell the barista what I wanted.

Thirdly, the barista would rip my receipt in half and prepare my order.

It was not a difficult routine but one needed to be familiar with it.

- Candice from NYC

When in Rome, eat breakfast as the Romans do

Italians have a completely different concept of what breakfast is. I discovered this soon after my arrival in Rome. Breakfast is not a lingering meal, but merely a quick energizer to start the day.

I learned quickly how “to do breakfast all’italiana.” I would start my day with a cappuccino and a cornetto at my local tobacconist’s shop. A cornetto is a croissant that comes in a variety of forms. I usually got it with sugar on top, but you can get it with chocolate, sugar, cream, or jam (usually apricot or peach). I would eat my breakfast standing at the counter and finish in less than five minutes.

- Candice from NYC

The Cappuccino Rule

A friend came to visit me while I was living in Rome. We went out for lunch one day. When we had finished our meal, my friend ordered a cappuccino.

Yikes, I thought! Oh, no! I had forgotten to tell her the cappuccino rule: When in Italy, never order a cappuccino after 11 am. You can order un caffè (espresso) in the afternoon or evening as well as in the morning, but it is definitely not acceptable to order a cappuccino.

The waiter paused and I quickly intervened. Not wanting to appear to be an ignorant foreigner (after all, I was living in Rome), I told him that she had meant an espresso.


- Candice from NYC

Never Wear Rain Boots in Italy!

Before I went to Rome for a semester abroad, I decided to invest in proper rain attire because I had heard that the winter months were usually rainy. I am not a fan of umbrellas, especially coming from a city where you spend more time protecting yourself from getting poked than actually staying dry.

It did rain often when I was in Rome, and on those days I would don my trusty American rain boots. The first time that I went out in my raingear, I felt rather uncomfortable because everyone was staring at me as if I were an extraterrestrial. I soon figured out why I was an object of such intense interest. It was my boots! Italian women do not wear rain boots; rain boots are not stylish.

But my question is: Why not make them stylish? Italy is the jewel of the fashion world. Why not create a sleek, elegant, and practical pair of rain boots? It’s a mystery.

I decided to stay dry and accept the stares and disapproving glances that I got from the Italian women rather than force myself to be cold and wet for fashion’s sake.

- Candice

Where are you going, my Siberian friends?

(image from wikipedia.com)

I am from Siberia and I am currently living in the US. My old friend Valentina came to visit me last week, and I decided to take her to visit the Big Apple.

We stayed with Jonathan, the son of a dear American friend of mine. As Valentina and I were leaving his apartment to go sightseeing the first morning, our host asked us where we were going. I told him that we were going to see the Statue of Liberty.

He asked me if I knew how to get there. I said that I didn't know how to get there.

Silence. He seemed surprised.

Then he asked me if I had a map. I told him that I didn't have a map. Silence. He seemed bewildered.

He then invited us back inside. He offered to draw us a map and to give us directions.We went into the living room. He carefully drew us a map and gave us very precise directions.

He was intrigued but completely baffled by our lack of preparedness. But, we explained to him, in Siberia we do not prepare for our outings in advance the way Americans do with maps, directions, etc. We simply ask people along the way until we arrive at our destination. That’s what we were planning to do in NY. Just ask people until we got to the Statue of Liberty! That is obviously not the American Way!

- Larissa from Yakutsk, Siberia

I refuse! A 20% tip is insane!

A few months ago my husband and I had friends visiting us from Italy. The night before they left, they wanted to treat us to a special dinner so we chose our favorite Lebanese restaurant in DC. We had a very pleasant evening. The food was absolutely delicious, and the service was impeccable.

The check for the meal was approximately $130. I watched as Patrizio paid the bill. Then I noticed that he left a $2 tip. I gasped in horror. I didn't know what to do. I didn't want to offend Patrizio who had kindly offered us a very special dinner but I didn't want to insult the excellent waiter who had served us well. I very gently told Patrizio that the custom was to leave a 15% or 20% tip (more 20%, of course, but I didn't say this).

Patrizio blew up. He had never heard anything so absurd. Why so much? Didn't the waiter have a salary? Why based on how much we had spent on our meal? Why? Why? Why? He was in a very serious state of culture shock. My husband and I left the tip and tried to leave the restaurant as quickly as possible. We haven't been back to that restaurant since!

- Sarah from Virginia

Chicken Head for Dinner

I was invited to dinner at the home of friends in Spain. I was thrilled at this kind invitation. I was given the place of honor at the table. I soon realized that everyone else had chicken breasts and drumsticks on their plates. But on my plate I saw, to my great horror, a chicken head complete with beak and eyes. My Spanish was very rudimentary, and my hosts didn't speak English at all. How was I supposed to find out whether this head was a big joke or a special delicacy?
I didn't want to offend my hosts. Since no one seemed to be on the verge of uncontrollable laughter, I finally decided to eat the tiny amount of meat on the cheeks. It was absolutely delicious!! So, it was a delicacy just for me! But the eyes. I just couldn't manage the eyes!

- Barbara from Philadelphia

The Turquoise Man

Photo from the Turquoise entry in Wikipedia

I had not been living in Rome for very long. One Monday morning I was chatting with an Italian friend, telling her about my week-end activities. I told her that I had gone by myself to visit a museum, and I had met a man there who followed me around. I had been rather annoyed because I couldn't get rid of him.
When my friend asked me if he had been an Italian, I replied, "No. Era un uomo turchese."
She started laughing. "Che cosa? Un uomo turchese?"
I soon realized that, instead of telling her that he was Turkish (turco), I had told her that he was turquoise!

"-ese" is a common suffix for words of nationality in Italian. Cinese, giapponese, danese, francese, norvegese, svedese, and olandese are all respectable Italian words. Why not turchese? Well, generalizations don't always work in a language!

- Christine

Pommes de terre douce, s'il vous plait

Sweet Potato: Photo from Wikipedia

While studying in Paris, my friends and I decided to try to prepare a “traditional” Thanksgiving dinner. My assignment was to bring yams.

There'd be twenty of us, so I'd need quite a few yams. I set out without a worry in the world. I had not done any linguistic preparation for this outing but I was completely relaxed. I was expecting to walk up to a produce stall at the market, find the yams, point and ask for ten, hand over my francs, and head home to start baking.

No big deal except … I didn't see any yams. I did see perfect pyramids of baking potatoes, russet potatoes, red potatoes, new potatoes, even blue potatoes, something called "creamy potatoes," but not a single yam. Well, now what? I was going to have to engage the produce guy in conversation. This was fine, I thought. My French was respectable.

I tell the produce guy that I need some 'pommes de terre douce.' He looks mildly shocked and replies, “Potato of the sweet earth? What's that?”

Flustered, I try to explain. “Uh, it's like a potato, but it's an orange. I mean, the color is orange.” Anxious to get rid of me, he says, “I'm sorry, Miss. I don't have anything like that.” I walk away as fast as my double-wide-ugly-American-nun shoes will take me without breaking into an uncivilized run back out to the street, where I start to cry as soon as the cold air hits my burning corneas. Now what?

The scene at two more produce stands is much the same--not a yam in sight, and no one seems to know what I'm talking about. I am a woman on the edge, all over some tubers. I decide not to panic and to act rationally. I sit down in the nearest bistro and order a cafe crème. I pay for my coffee and head out the door.

As I round the corner, I see a bookstore that I'm pretty sure wasn't there twenty minutes earlier. I step inside and I make a beeline for the reference section and grab the biggest French/English dictionary I can find. Sweet bread, sweet corn, sweet tooth, sweet talk, sweet success, sweet POTATO! They do exist--patate douce. What's the difference between pomme de terre and patate? How was I supposed to know? I say it over and over as I reshelve the dictionary and look for the culinary section. I find what looks like a picture encyclopedia of foods and flip through until I find "patate douce."

Well, this explains everything. Staring me in the face is a glossy, full color glamour shot and cross-section of the patate douce. It is decidedly not orange but it rather looks like your average spud. No wonder all those produce guys blew me off. Armed with my new vocabulary word, I trace my steps back to the last produce stand. I ask for sweet potatoes correctly this time and am not met with a blank stare. When asked how much I want, I say, “10.”

(to be continued)

Patates douces, s'il vous plait

(Continued from previous post)

Photo by miya in Wikipedia

I'm still reveling in my linguistic triumph when the produce guy tells me, "That's 359 francs, Miss." Quoi?!? That's more than 50 dollars--for yams? I tell myself, "Pay the man and let's just go home."

He must have seen the distressed look on my face because he adds, "They're 35 francs per kilo--imported from Africa." He hands me the bags.

As I am trudging home, it suddenly hits me. Hold on! 359 francs, 35 francs a kilo. I know what's happened. I'm carrying ten kilos of patates douces, which looks to be about 25 medium-sized yams and explains completely why I got such friendly service. Too late now. I'm just not up for trying to return half my purchase.

Sometime during the long walk home, the handles of both bags break, and by the time I round the corner next to the apartment, I'm hugging all 10 kilos as if I'm carrying triplets. My pockets and the hood of my coat are stuffed with the yams that slipped out of their bags along the way. I must look absolutely ridiculous--I can forget about "blending" into the Parisian scene.

I pause to get my keys out from underneath several potatoes, and in that split second, something changes. My arms relax and I lean my head back and do a Mary Tyler Moore-style twirl in the street. I'm living in Paris. Paris! I'm not a tourist who comes to see the Mona Lisa and the Eiffel Tower, eat at McDo, and shop in the American store. I live here. I read the newspaper on my way to school and use French deodorant and meet my friends for falafel on Sundays and go to the movies alone and pick up visitors at the Gare du Nord and go jogging down the Champs Elysees and I buy yams from the produce guy. Ten kilos of yams, white ones imported from Africa.

- Abbe

This story was reprinted with permission in the speakEZlanguages newsletter at http://www.speakezlanguages.com/. Click on Articles in the Table of Contents.

Know Your Oranges!

Photograph by Eric Hill in Wikipedia

While I was living in Rome, a friend came to town. She was traveling around Europe in a camper with her husband and son. They did most of their own cooking at their campsite. One day Kathy went to an open-air market and bought a dozen oranges. The next morning she took one of the oranges and cut it open. "Yuk!" she screamed. It was black inside. She immediately threw it away. She cut another one. That was black inside, too. After obtaining the same results on three more oranges, she decided to throw the whole batch in the trash.

When she told me this story later in the day, I was appalled. She had thrown out the most delicious, the sweetest oranges that you could find on the face of the earth. She had bought a dozen blood oranges which are the usual orange on the outside but are deep red on the inside. They are to be treasured!

Photograph by Allen Timothy Chang in Wikipedia

- Christine

You are supposed to bring what??!!

When I was living in England, I used to take guitar lessons once a week. When Christmas came around, the teacher decided to have a little party for all of the students. She asked each one of us to bring some "nibbles" for the party.

At the time, I was living with a family as an au pair. I told the woman of the house, a very proper British lady, about our party and told her that we had been asked to bring "nipples." I wondered if she could tell me what 'nipples' were and what kind of nipples I should bring. She looked at me in a very funny way for a while and then started laughing.

When she stopped laughing, she gave me a mini-vocabulary lesson on the words 'nibbles' and 'nipples.' I learned something new because both of these words were completely new to me.

- Monica from Ecuador

If it looks like a tomato, is it a tomato?

Photo from Wikipedia, Creative Commons

I was studying at the l’Università per Stranieri in Perugia, Italy, and I was living with a very nice family. But I encountered a problem at lunch the very first day. After we had eaten the pasta and the main course, my host mother put a plate in front of me that contained a round, reddish-orange object. I hesitated, trying to decide what to do. I finally decided that I really had to tell her the truth since I would be eating at her house for two months.

“Signora,” I began, “I don’t like fresh tomatoes.” The truth is that I like cooked tomatoes in any form (stewed tomatoes, tomato sauce, etc.) but I just detest fresh tomatoes. I can’t explain it but it is one of the very few foods that I just cannot eat. And I regret it because tomatoes do look so delicious.

My host mother began to laugh uproariously. Why was she laughing? I was quite sure my Italian had been correct. I looked at her in dismay. She then said triumphantly, “Non e’ un pomodoro. E’ un cachi!”

I had never seen such a fruit in my life so I had absolutely no idea what a cachi was. But I ate it and loved it. When I went back to my room and consulted my bilingual dictionary, I discovered that I had just eaten a persimmon. That was one fruit that I had not grown up with in Minnesota but one that I immediately took a strong liking to!
- Christine

Where’s the war? Lost in Bois-le-Roi

Linguistic miscues can be embarrassing at the time but they can make funny stories later on. Let me give you an example.

I was spending a few days in Bois-le-Roi, a small town in France not far from Fontainebleau. One day I had to walk to the local train station to meet someone. At a certain point, I wasn’t 100% sure that I was going in the right direction. Therefore, I plucked up my courage and stopped a young man to ask for verification. Trying to use my best French pronunciation, I asked, “Où est la guerre?” When he looked at me with a mildly shocked expression, I quickly regrouped, realizing my mistake, and tried again. “Où est la gare?” He smiled, pointed, and said, “Par là!”

- Christine

Health Care is a Human Right in Italy

Ero arrivato in Italia da pochi mesi e mi ammalai. Non conoscendo la prassi italiana, non avevo provveduto a procurarmi un medico di fiducia. Dopo svariati giorni di febbre alta, nonostante l'assunzione di farmaci generici, e non potendo rivolgermi al medico di base, la mia fidanzata chiamò la "Guardia Medica," un servizio di emergenza attivo 24 ore su 24. Dopo circa 15 minuti dalla telefonata arrivarono a casa 2 medici che mi visitarono e mi prescrissero i dovuti esami ospedalieri, con tutte le raccomandazioni del caso. Al momento dei saluti mi premurai di tirare fuori il portafoglio per pagare la visita: "Quanto devo?" I due medici si guardarono tra loro e un po imbarazzati, cordialmente mi risposero che non dovevo pagare nulla. Cercai di insistere mostrando a tutti il portafoglio. "Ma no, ditemi pure quanto devo per la visita!". Al secondo rifiuto dei medici, guardai la mia fidanzata con aria confusa. A quel punto lei mi spiego’ che NON dovevo pagare NIENTE perchè la guardia medica è un servizio completamente gratuito PER TUTTI, di ogni colore, nazione, religione, o capacità economica.

- Adriano di Milano

The Japanese Cause Floods in Hawaii

Many years ago, at the peak of the economic boom in Japan, many Japanese went to Hawaii as tourists for the first time. Suddenly, the front desks at the hotels were flooded with complaints of water running under the room doors and down the halls. It was a very serious problem.

The hotel management soon discovered the reason. In Japan the shower is a flexible hose. Before getting into the bathtub, you are supposed to use this hose to wash yourself . You wash yourself over the drain in the middle of the bathroom floor. Then, and only then, do you climb into the bathtub and submerge yourself in the clean, warm water

The problem was that American bathrooms do not have drains in the middle of the floor. So the water naturally had to go somewhere else, and it, therefore, found its way out of the hotel rooms and down the halls. You can imagine the disaster!

- Paul from Boston

How far is "not far?" in Spain?

Oh, my aching feet!

While in Madrid, I was spending some time with the rather large extended family of a dear Spanish friend. It was Mother's Day, and we all celebrated the special day at a lovely restaurant.

Once the delightful meal was over, it was time to go to the home of my friend's parents. Everyone agreed that we should walk since it was “not far.” I was hoping it wasn’t far since I was rather dressed up and was wearing heels.

Walking at a relatively brisk clip, it took us over an hour of up and down hills, "just around the corner" and "up this way a bit more" before we finally got to their apartment building. I'm sure that our walk was well over 2 miles. I knew that Europeans, or at least Spaniards, certainly walked a lot more than we Americans did but this seemed too much under the circumstances. An American would never have considered it to be "not far" when dressed to go to dinner.
- Sheila from Virginia

Culturally out of place in Costa Rica

Christian's Jeep

While in Costa Rica visiting friends, my husband and I spent a day driving to a volcano, going to its summit, and returning home, stopping in many places along the way. Our companions were our young friend Christian whom we were visiting and his cousin Alonso. I took a place in the back of the car with my English-speaking husband, letting the Spanish-speaking young men sit up front.

I could tell there was something uncomfortable about this arrangement, but it wasn't until after we had lunch that Christian finally spoke up. He asked me if I could, please, sit up front with him. I explained to him that I had chosen to sit in the back because of the language situation. He said he understood, but, in Costa Rica, it was an awkward situation. He explained that, when there is only one lady in a car, she rides in the front so that the men can show her their respect. Embarrassed and apologetic, I immediately took my place of honor in the front.

I was glad that Christian had spoken up. I got to see the spectacular scenery much better than my husband who was still sitting in the back!
-Sheila from Virginia

To dance or not to dance...

A real party in Ecuador

In my country (Ecuador), there is never a party without dancing. In fact, for us "party" is synonymous with DANCING. Even if there is a meal, after the meal all the furniture is pushed aside and the dancing begins!
So, when I moved to the States and went to my first "party," there were drinks, there were snacks, there was conversation, but all night I kept waiting for the dancing to begin. I could not BELIEVE nor UNDERSTAND how Americans could "have fun" at a party without dancing. I left the party utterly frustrated. I found it boring and totally weird.
As time went by, I got used to non-dancing parties, but I still have a hard time calling them "parties."

- Susana from Ecuador

Beware of underwear sizes!

When I came to live in the US from France, I knew I had to learn the English system of units; however, nobody warned me about the different sizes for clothing.
When I went to buy a bra and asked for size 85B, the saleswoman looked at me totally puzzled, considering my small size. She assured me that I had the wrong size but I argued that I knew my own size well.
Later I learned, however, that my European size was actually a 32B in the US. No wonder the woman was incredulous!
- Monica from France

Quanto costa - veramente?

When I arrived in the US, I went into a store to buy something. The price marked on the item was $99.50. I went to the register to pay. I was at a complete loss when the cashier asked for $106.46. My English wasn’t very good but I could certainly read numbers! I couldn’t understand why he had raised the price by about $7. Perhaps he realized that I was a foreigner and was trying to cheat me. I soon learned, however, that the marked price did not include tax. In Italy

you pay the price marked on the item. The tax is already included.

- Andrea from Italy

Shopping in Rome: Quanti chili vuole?

I had just moved into my apartment in Rome, and it was time to buy some food. I went to the local outdoor market. I stopped to buy some green beans (fagiolini). When the vendor asked me how much I wanted, I panicked. I had no idea what to say. But I didn’t want to show that I didn’t have a clue what a kilo was so I briskly said, “Due chili” (two kilos). Well, it took me quite a long while to eat 4.4 pounds of green beans!
- Christine

The Meaning of 'Un caffe, per favore' in Italy

I am an Italian American and I grew up speaking Italian so I felt pretty confident when I went to Italy. I was in a café in Naples and I nonchalantly ordered, “Un caffe.” The waiter brought me this tiny little cup of coffee. I was furious but I didn’t say anything. That evening I complained bitterly to my American friend. “I thought I could be taken for an Italian but apparently it was obvious that I was an American. I ordered a coffee and the waiter brought me the smallest cup of coffee you can possibly imagine. What should I do the next time this happens?” My friend laughed and said that “caffe” means an espresso which indeed comes in a little cup. “Next time,” she said, “ask for ‘un caffe americano’.”

- Mary from Philadelphia

To Buy or Not To Buy A Bus Ticket in Rome

When I was in Rome, I was told that I needed to buy a bus ticket before I got on the bus. Once on the bus, I would validate it in a machine that would stamp the date on it. I followed this procedure but I noticed that most of the other passengers didn’t. When I asked an Italian friend, she informed me that the Romans liked to take chances. It was rare for a controller to board the bus so it was easy to get away without stamping the ticket. You could save money that way. I decided NOT to “When in Rome, do as the Romans do!”

- Penny from the US

Public Displays of Affection: US vs Korea

When I came to the United States the first time, I was horrified at the scene at the airport. Some of my fellow passengers were met by their husbands or boy friends, and they were hugging and kissing! I was so shocked that I wanted to turn around and get back on the plane and go back to Korea. I had never seen anyone kiss in public before! It is just not done in Korea.

- Irene from Korea

Removing Shoes in Japan: Why?

I was in Japan doing some program adjustments to a computer in a hospital. As we approached the door to the computer room, my Japanese host slipped off his shoes. I did the same and then asked him why people did this. “It is done out of respect for the computer in the room,” he said.

- Paul from Boston

Shocking Popcorn for A German in the US

I went to a movie in the States with some American friends. We all ordered popcorn and took it into the theater. I took one bite and instinctively spit it out. My friends were concerned, and they asked me if I was OK. “No,” I managed to choke out. “The popcorn is SALTY!” They told me that it was supposed to be salty. But in Germany, we put sugar, not salt, on our popcorn! My taste buds were shocked!!

-Gerald from Germany

Buying Shoes in Italy: Did You Say Size 8???

I went into a shoe store in Italy. When the salesman asked me what my shoe size was, I said, “Size 8.”

He looked at me very strangely and then decided to measure my foot. He said in a very amused voice, “Your size is 39.”

- Christine

American Barbarians:A Japanese Perspective

I just couldn’t believe it. I was walking down the street in a city in Minnesota, and I saw someone eating an ice cream cone as he walked down the street. Eating and walking at the same time! I was shocked! I thought Americans must be barbarians.

- Nobu from Japan

Nutmeg - a nut?? Another Roman Story

Another grocery store story. I asked for nutmeg. The man gave me a hard little nut. I was too embarrassed to say anything although I had no idea what I should do with it. I bought it and then asked an Italian friend. “What did you expect?” she asked. I replied, “I expected nutmeg in powder form in a little bottle.” “Oh, no!” she laughed. “You take this and grate it.”
- Christine

Buying Eggs in Rome, Italy

I went into a grocery store in Rome. I asked the man for 6 eggs. He asked me if I wanted them for cooking or for drinking. What a strange question! I was temporarily at a loss for words but then recovered and said, “For cooking.”

Later my Italian friends said the question basically meant: “Do you want fresh eggs or less fresh eggs?” One should always say “uova da bere” (eggs for drinking) whether one intends to drink them or not. Many Italians do drink eggs. They make a hole in both ends and then suck out the contents.
- Christine from Minnesota