A Foreigner in His Own Country

My husband and I were in Florence and went to the Accademia di Belle Arti to see Michelangelo's magnificent statue of David. We got in line for tickets. I noticed that there were two categories, discounted tickets for Italian citizens and regular tickets for everyone else. When it was my turn, I asked for an Italian ticket. I am an American citizen by birth but also an Italian citizen by marriage. I showed my Italian passport and got my ticket. When it was my husband's turn, he too asked for an Italian ticket. He was born in Rome and lived in Italy for the first 50 years of his life. He was, in other words, a "real" Italian. The ticket man asked to see a document. He didn't have his passport with him but explained to the man in perfect Italian that he was indeed an Italian, born and bred. The man insisted on seeing a document. The many Italians in the long line behind us immediately took sides. They started yelling and shouting, "Give him a ticket! Can't you tell he is Italian? Listen to him!" The man would not give an inch. My husband ended up paying full price. Italians are known for not being sticklers for rules. Why was this one so stubborn? He is lucky a riot didn't take place. It almost did!

Submitted by Andrea, Virginia

Another Foreigner in His Own Country

Sometimes the shocks are reserved for coming home.
I’m an American of Asian descent. Back from a year abroad, I’d just landed in New York. I caught the free shuttle bus from one of the parking lots at JFK to the Howard Beach subway station. When we arrived at the station, the bus knelt with a pneumatic hiss and I struggled off, suitcases heavy with gifts, books, and a year’s living. In my wallet I had a wadded-up twenty that I’d held onto for the last twelve months, anticipating my arrival back in the States. But the MetroCard machines weren’t taking bills.
I asked the man in the glass booth for change.
He sighed. “Do I look like I’m here to give you change?” he asked.
“Well…,” I began, taken aback. There were piles of coins on the counter in front of him.
Before I could explain, he continued, “If I went to your country, I’d make sure I had some change on me when I got off the plane.”
Welcome to New York, I thought, reaching for my passport.

Submitted by Edward Gauvin, Writer and French Translator

Culture Shock in One's Own Country

Pete and Shorty's

I have discovered that I can encounter culture shock without even leaving the US. Let me share the clash I recently had with another culture.

I live in Washington, DC. Last month I made a trip to the Midwest. One day I stopped for lunch at Pete and Shorty's in a small rural town. As I am a vegetarian, I was delighted to find "veggie burger" on the menu. I was surprised, however, because I hadn't expected such an item on a menu in America's heartland. I ordered it. This is what the waitress brought me.


It looked like an old-fashioned hamburger to me so I asked the waitress, "Is this a hamburger?" She answered in the affirmative. "But I ordered a veggie burger." She looked at me as if she had never in her entire life encountered anyone with such a low IQ. With a triumphant flourish, she pointed to the slice of tomato on the bun and asserted, "There's the vegetable."

- Chris Gilbert, Washington, DC

Two pounds of pork chops, please

I had lived in Chicago for about two years. I had done some traveling and learned some Spanish in Chile, Cuba, Costa Rica and Puerto Rico, so I was totally confident in my Spanish.

I went to a small Mexican-American owned meat market in my neighborhood for some pork chops one night, and I asked the man behind the counter: "Por favor, Senor, pero podrias darme dos labios de chuletas?" He stared at me, and I repeated myself.

"What do you want?" He asked me, rather angrily in English... I stammered "Two pounds of pork chops..."

"Ah, si" he said. "Dos LIBRAS de chuletas." I had been asking him for two lips of pork chops. Que horror!

Sean O.

Complaining about air pollution, or so I thought

Tianjin was, and is, a huge industrial city, about an hour and a half from Beijing. The first word I looked up in my tiny English-Chinese dictionary, after arriving in the city, was the word for "air pollution," since Tianjin had the worst air pollution problem I had ever seen. However, cab drivers and other people I met were giving me odd, puzzled stares when I commented on the smoky, smelly, choking atmosphere.

One day one of my cab drivers gave me a language lesson. Still trying my usual topic of conversation, I mentioned what I thought was “air pollution” and this cab driver pointed to the Chinese flag. Much to my chagrin, I suddenly realized that I had actually been saying something like, "Red flag pollution." My face became as red as the flag I had been insulting!

Fortunately, the Chinese people are very tolerant of their erring or seemingly crazy waiguoren pengyou (foreigner friends)!

- Morris Jordan from Colorado

Be careful when you say “ma” in China

I had been teaching English in China for about a month and had been trying to cram a lot of Chinese vocabulary into my brain. One day I was strolling along Heiniuchengdao in Tianjin with one of my new Chinese friends, when I spied a horse pulling a wagon.

Showing off a bit, I pointed to the horse and said, "Ma.”

My Chinese friend doubled over with laughter. When I got him to calm down a bit, he explained that I had not used the "falling and rising" tone for the syllable which meant "horse." Apparently, I had called the horse "mother." My friend thought it was very appropriate!

- Morris Jordan from Colorado

Driving in the US: Encounter with a Policeman

One day, a few months after I had come to the United States for good, I received my driver’s license. I was so thrilled that I decided to take a drive to go shopping at an Asian market.

As I was approaching that Asian market, I got a little confused as to where the entrance from the street was. Finally, I saw a narrow turning path. I put the turn signal on. I drove a couple of feet, and then I heard a siren. There was a police car right behind me and the policeman was waving his hand for me to stop. I stopped, opened my car door, stepped out of my car, and walked toward the police car.

When the policeman got out of his car, I asked him, “Why are you following me? Did I do anything wrong?” The policeman seemed very shocked at my upfront questions. Instead of answering me, he told me to get back into my car. “Why?” I asked, refusing to go back to my car. Then my tears started to flow. “You don’t know why, young lady?” the policeman asked. “First, you were not in the turn lane when you turned into the shopping center; second, you are supposed to sit in the car and wait for the policeman to come to you.”

In China, drivers who break the traffic rules are supposed to come forward to the policeman. Also Chinese policemen always collect the fine on the spot, in cash. This American policeman took pity on me and didn’t give me a ticket but I learned a hard lesson that day!

- Gwen Qin

Fifteen Bucks? Bucks?

Shopping Experience

A few days after I left China and settled down in Colorado, I went shopping. While I was in the store, I saw a nice pair of sunglasses on the shelf. I picked them up and wanted to find out how much they cost, but I found no price sticker on the glasses. So I went to one of the clerks and asked him how much the sunglasses were.

“Fifteen bucks,” the gentleman answered. “Fifteen bucks?” I asked incredulously. “That is a very reasonable price, ma’am,” the gentleman added.

I thought to myself, “I studied in school that ’buck’ means ‘male deer.’ That makes no sense at all. A pair of sunglasses costs a herd of deer? What kind of currency was he talking about?” I wanted to make sure that he knew I wanted to buy a pair of sunglasses with U.S. dollars.

Finally, I gathered from the conversation around me that “buck” was a slang word for “dollar.” I then asked him, “So these sunglasses cost fifteen dollars?” The clerk responded, “You bet!” “Oh, no, sir,” I said. “I don’t want to gamble. I just want to pay the money for the sunglasses.”

Gwen Qin

Chinese teacher

Littleton, Colorado

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