Discretion

There are so many awkward things about not being able to speak the local language

The Junior High years I spent poking away at French did a very minimal amount for me.

Yesterday, Meaghen and I stopped by the bakery around the corner to get a croissant for her. We thought this would be a great way to welcome her to Couiza.

France. Croissants. Local Bakery. Makes sense.

On walking in however, we saw this amazing PIZZA with goat cheese, mushrooms and toasted almonds on it. We decided we had to have that instead.

We pointed to it, while doing a passable job (or so we thought) reading out the name on the card in front of the pizza.

The girl shoved a pizza into the box, threw it over the counter at us, told us the total, and barely stopped short of telling us to get the hell out of there.

She had put the wrong pizza in the box, though.

Meaghen and I looked at each other. Should we SAY something? She was really grumpy. It did not seem like a wise idea.

However, the flute like call of the goat cheese, mushroom, almond pizza was too irresistible. Like the Sirens hailing Odysseus. Or something like that.

So, hesitantly, we tried to tell her that she had given us the wrong one.

She glared at us, spewed forth a flood of French that probably damned us to hell and in the meantime cursed us to a life of being around her, and then finally, with the air of a long suffering martyr, exchanged the pizza for the one we wanted.

We sneaked out apologetically.

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Then, there is the mistaken assumption that because you are in a foreign country where you do not speak the language, no one can understand the language you do speak.

Today we made a much needed visit to the supermarket and after wandering around, picking up absolute essentials like wine and chocolate, we ended up at checkout, trying to decide which line was moving fastest.

The checkout line to our left was filled with two women who seemed to be glaring at the world in general.

"Those women are kind of scary."

"I think they are lesbians."

"Mhmm. The one on the left is particularly butch."

"I just don't understand why they can't make an effort to actually dress well and have nice hair."

We moved into the checkout line across from the two lovely ladies.

At which point I heard them bitching to each other.

They were British. and quite possibly heard every word we said, judging by the death rays directed at us.

Whoops.

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This reminds me of the game I used to play with my friends when we were in Roma.

We liked to play "Gay, or just Italian?"

We would pick a man and assess his clothing, hair, skin, and the way he walked or sat, and from that point put him in one of the two categories. Or sometimes both. The glory of the game was that it was always SO HARD TO TELL.

One day on the bus, we picked a prime suspect a few rows ahead of us.

"Hmm. His clothes are pretty perfect. Look at the way he has tied his scarf."

"His hair looks like he spent most of the day on it. How did he get it to spike so perfectly?"

"I dunno though, those shoes are pretty ugly. I don't if any straight guy would choose those."

"True, but look at the way he has crossed his legs. And his hands. Look at the way he has folded his hands."

At which point, the gentleman uncrossed his legs, unfolded his hands, stood up abruptly, glared at us, and stormed off the bus.

We felt pretty bad about that one.

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I have no idea where I am going with this, except, perhaps, that life is easier when you know the local language.

Also, when analyzing those around you, discretion is always advised.