Niemcy z perspektywy najeźdźcy

Belgium. The cashier selling kebabs parlais French, zero English. I pick up one in five words. The cashier:

– Bonjour.

– Döner falafel sil vous plait.

– Takeaway?

I point to the tables, mumbling something in an undefined tongue. The cashier replies:

– Please sit down.

What, are you accusing me of lying? That he didn't say that cause he didn't know English? Then why would he later bring food to my table? He said that, period. I mean, I don't know what exactly he blurted out, but I'm sure that's what he said.

I just know it! Come on, what else could he have said? "Please pay?" "Sorry, it's reserved?" That only people with fancy hats are allowed in? This is not my first restaurant in Europe, I know how this works.

And I still remember how lost I was myself in such situation when I was a kid. Now, every couple of years I realize that there is a protocol I follow without even knowing. A protocol of the kind which makes you seem like an airheaded alien before you learn about it.

C'est la vie.