I was a training supervisor once, and one of my trainees was native American. And she would never look at me when I was speaking with her, which was when I was correcting her or show her something new she’d missed most of the time. Frustrated the hell out of me. Apparently, however, many of the tribes are taught culturally not to look at bosses or people in charge. I never have been able to totally confirm that; she was lovely, and tried hard, but sadly, we had to let her go.
Times change; this was about 10 yrs ago. My father did swim nude in school and at the YMCA. We didn’t have a pool, and we never even did shirts vs. skins, even when boys & girls had seperate activities. I went to Australia & New Zealand with a People to People one summer. In NZ we got to visit a local HS and shadow our hosts. Boys went to one school and girls to another. My host-brother didn’t have PE that day, but some of others’ did.
It was a little akward for them to sit in the lockerrom while everyone was changing then watch a swim class (since they didn’t have suits). We met up at lunch and joked around, then one of our hosts said that they really did have to swim naked if they forgot their suits. I don’t know if he was serious though.
One of the girls in our group was explaining to her host family what a cheerleader was and told them that she rooted for the football team. I had a very confusing incident in Oz when I was offered a fag to suck on. I ended up having to smoke a cigarette.
I’ve told this one before, but here goes…
Twenty plus years ago, I was between careers and going to school. I worked several jobs in addition to going to school full time. One of those jobs was at a Chinese restaurant where they served combination appetizer plates called “Pu Pu Platters”. In the center of each of the platters (big fancy wooden thingamabob with a depression in the center), was a tiny miniature brazier like grill with real fire, where you could grill pieces of pork and beef.
Usually they were dead by the time I came back to get the platter but one time the darned thing was still burning, soooo… while carrying it back to the kitchen, I saw that and tried to blow it out. It flared up a bit, but didn’t go out. So, instead of it dawning on me what actually managed to keep the fire going (or its origins in the first place), I thought “hmmm, guess I didn’t blow hard enough”. So the next time I gave it a big hard WHOOOOOOOF! gust.
Luckily I was fast in those days, and JuuuuuuUUUUUuust avoided losing eyelashes, eyebrows and bangs. Only then did it slowly dawn on me, one word formed (a little late in my opinion) in my feeble ditzy little blonde pea brain. “OOooOOOOH…STERNoooo”.:smack:
I’m from the US and did a study abroad in Germany when I was 20. We were given tiny “apartments” with shared bathrooms/kitchens to stay in for the 4 months with furniture and bedding. I put the bedding on the bed and didn’t think much of it (other than thinking I wasn’t given enough for the cold winter) until a week or so later when one of the German students came in my room. She berated me and said I was dumber than a 6-year-old because I didn’t put the cover on the blanket.
I didn’t even know that was a cover, since in the US, I never saw them, except maybe in hotels, where they were already on the blanket to begin with. But she was shocked that I didn’t know about it.
A lesser one, but I moved from Detroit to Seattle in 2010, and I tend to get fast food every week or so. In Detroit, when they call you to get your food in a busy place, they’ll name your order, but in Seattle they just call out your number. I had thrown away the receipt already (I don’t like receipts, all this paper they expect you to take with you), not thinking that the number would be important. Then I realizes they were just calling numbers and freaked out “What’s my number? Oh no!”
When I was young, I somehow got the idea that Canadians spoke only French and that none of them knew English. Then, I was 6 and we went to Ontario and I was amazed to see mostly English on the road signs.
I had a great job that involved a lot of travel to Europe (from the US). This was really the first opportunity I had to go abroad. It took me a little while to blend in.
On my first trip to Italy, I was at a very posh business dinner. I think I was the youngest person by at least 15 years, maybe 20.
After dinner, the waiter brought out little glasses of digestifs. “Cool!” I thought to myself, “they brought us shots!” so I downed mine. Then I looked around to see everyone else preparing to savour the drink with tiny sips. Oh.
On that same trip, I was staying on the outskirts of Florence, and decided to spend a free afternoon strolling downtown. My Italian colleagues were a little concerned that I wouldn’t be able to find my way back – it was easy to get downtown, you just aim for the Duomo. Getting back with nothing in particular to guide you, on all those twisty streets was more challenging. “No problem,” I said breezily, “I’m very good with keeping track of where I’m walking.” On my way out, I made note of the street sign, “Senso Unico.”
So I’m walking and walking on the twisty streets, and a while later I noticed I was still on Senso Unico even after walking quite a distance. “Sweet!” I thought, “this street winds all the way downtown, getting back will be no problem at all!” A while later, I was thinking to myself that Senso Unico is a really long street. When it was time to head home, I found Senso Unico and started walking. And walking.
I was hopelessly lost before it dawned on me that Senso Unico means “one way street.” :smack: They looked just like street signs! And in Florence, EVERY street is a one way street.
I have heard Americans express surprise that (some) Europeans find us dimwitted. I am really not surprised at all.
This one kind of reminds me of when my dad and sister visited me while I was living in Granada, Spain. We decided to rent a car and tour around Andalucia. While on the freeways, my dad was very paranoid about missing the correct exits, so every time we passed a road sign, he would exclaim, “What’s that say?!”
“For the millionth time, Dad, it says, ‘Buckle your seatbelt!’”
Or as the joke goes, “I have gone to Aussteigen a thousand times but somehow I can never seem to get there!”
“(Highway) Exit”, in German. The “Exit number XYZ” signs look like other countries’ “XYZ km to Wherever” signs.
'68-'72. Illinois.
I visited the UK a few times back in the 80s. Being from North America, I was used to tipping the barman each round. So I was a little surprised on my first visit to a British pub, when the barman pushed the change back, saying “Sir, we don’t do that here.” The barman wouldn’t accept a tip, but it was just unnatural for me not to leave one.
However, each pub I visited had some sort of charity it was supporting–I recall that many were supporting guide dogs for the blind. So I just said, “Give the change to the guide dogs,” on each round. The barman happily complied; and I, for my part, had left something.
I like to think that some blind person in the UK has a guide dog, thanks (in part) to my North American need to tip.
I have kids in high school currently… and they shower after gym and/or swimming.
No nude swimming though.
I was about 20 and just started my first “real” job. These two women sat down with me at lunch and began peppering me with mundane personal questions. Seriously, it was rapid fire style. We got to talking about family.
Them: Do you have any brothers or sisters?
Me: I have a sister.
Them: Is she younger or older?
Me: Younger.
Them: Does she have any kids?
Me: (Thinking I’d answer what I thought would be the next logical question) She’s never been married.
Them: (offended) You don’t have to be married to have kids.
For me having children was just something you didn’t do if you weren’t married. Oh well. That’s what they got for peppering me with personal questions.
This is discussed here starting about 2:05.
My first time eating at a small village’s sole cafe in rural France. After the (utterly fabulous) first two courses, the cheese tray came around - literally a tray that was passed from customer to customer. Except (perhaps as we were the only non-locals there) it came to our table first, so I thought it was ours … French cheese really is delicious, I thought as I ate my way through about 6 people’s worth before my then-wife noticed the natives getting restless. I must have said “pardon” a million times as we scuttled away.
They had no business interpreting your answer that way. They were the ones who were culturally clueless.
Same for Polish families. Same for Hungarian families. Same for pretty much any kind of family I’ve ever visited that has close connections to “the Old World” and many that don’t. It just seems to be a very common cultural point. As a rule, I never refuse seconds when visiting somebody for dinner. I take a smaller first portion (if offered the option), and then take a second portion. If I’m getting full, the trick is just to eat more slowly. Finish too fast and you will be offered thirds. Same thing with drink. An empty glass goes not stay empty for long at family events, so if you’re drinking something alcoholic and don’t want any more, don’t finish the drink. Finishing the drink is interpreted as a sign of “I’d like some more.”
The first 30 years of my life. The stories are too many to tell.
Although I will admit being normal enough to not have drama isn’t that great either. The lack of drama is good, but deep inside I realize I don’t really fit in with people who actually internalize and truly believe a lot of these social rules and regulations.
My absolute most embarrassing was as a brand new freshman at a very alternative college (Friends World College, North Shore Long Island, in 1976), when, to make pleasant conversation I brightly asked a young black man from Harlem, “So, how did YOU end up here?”
He looked at me with a totally deadpan face and said, “oh I was just sitting on my stoop eating watermelon and this van pulls up and they grab me and throw me in and drive me away and next thing I know they dump me out here.”
I cringe to this day.
Maybe we went to the same high school - I tell people we used to swim in the nude in the high school pool and they all think I am either a liar or some kind of pervert. My cousin told me they finally stopped this in the late 1980’s when they cleverly bought a dryer for the kids to dry their swimsuits. And trust me, you never wanted to have swim class first period in the mornings, in Illinois, in winter, when swimming in the nude.
I had a lily-white, clueless friend get his first teaching job in a somewhat ghetto area of Chicago back in the early 70’s. After his first class, he asked one of the guys to stay after class - a black kid with large Afro - hairstyle of the era. My friend said, “I didn’t want to embarrass you in class, but you forgot to take the comb out of your hair.”
When I was living in Germany I had my foot in my mouth so often I had teeth marks on my toes. One grand story was me needing to see a doctor for some minor check up and just walking through the neighborhood, saw a sign for a doctor’s office - stated the doctor was a woman and, as a guy, I was fine with that.
I went in and asked to speak with the doctor.
The following conversation was in German, but I will translate:
“Why do you want to see the doctor?”
“I want to make an appointment.”
The doctor came out - a very nice looking woman - and asked what I wanted.
“To make an appointment to see you.”
“I am a ‘Frauenarzt’” (Frau = woman, Arzt = doctor)
“I don’t mind if my doctor is a woman.”
She smiled and then laughed and said in perfect English, “Frauenarzt is the German word for Gynecologist.”
I could hear the other women in the waiting room laughing and laughing as I walked quickly out of the office.
This puzzles me. A cover on a blanket? I was raised in an Amish/Mennonite family, but the only things on our beds were quilts. Many quilts. You needed them, since snow would sift in around the windows and pile up on the sills. But what’s a cover?
I’ve seen bedcovers over blankets and duvets with covers - and I’ve heard (from other foreigners who were in Germany) of people simulating a duvet with a blanket inside a cover.