How hard can it be?

A posting to the Philippines was going to be a breeze. We had lived in SE Asia before, and loved it, so we were really excited to be moving back to the region. As an added bonus, we wouldn’t have to struggle to learn a new language, as, thanks to fifty years of American colonization, everyone speaks English. And yet, somehow, not a day passes when I am forced to recognize that my English is in a completely different ballpark to the Filipino variety. As I ask for a particular item, I watch their eyes glaze over, like a rabbit in headlights, and wait for the inevitable: “Out of stock, ma’am,” simply because they have not understood the word or expression I have used. Sometimes I flutter about, trying out different terms, and occasionally, by pure fluke, I pull the right one out of a hat. The glazed stare is replaced by a beam, and the object is found.

Sometimes it is amusing, more often frustrating, but never more so than when I am hungry and failing to communicate with waiting staff in a restaurant.

On his return from a long business trip, my One & Only and I visited a local café. It was a quiet day – we were the only customers – but there were probably half a dozen staff, all studiously avoiding us. We eventually found our own way to a table and began reading the menu. Eventually we were joined by a young waitress who seemed fluent in English. She took our order, brought us wine and water and all looked set for a happy reunion.

Minutes later my dream was shattered.

I had ordered carpaccio as a starter and barramundi to follow. The carpaccio duly arrived. “May I please have some bread with that,” I asked brightly, naively. There was a pregnant pause. “No ma’am,” our waitress stated simply, “we don’t serve bread with the carpaccio.” Three times I tried and failed to find a way to get some bread. “I realize it doesn’t come with the carpaccio,” I wheedled, ingratiatingly, “but may I have a side order?” I even offered to pay extra. “No ma’am,” she insisted, unyielding. “We don’t serve bread with the carpaccio.” By now I was desperate. I wanted that bread more than anything else, how hard could it be?  I am married to an Italian and there is always bread on the table!

I approached from a different angle and asked if there was any bread in the kitchen. “No ma’am”. “None at all??” I  squeaked.  “No ma’am.”  I felt like weeping with frustration, when my darling husband kindly intervened. ‘Excuse me, could you please turn around and look at the menu?” he asked the waitress, sweetly. She obliged him. “Now,” he said quietly, patiently, “do you see where you have potato and leek soup?” “Yes sir.” “And it comes with freshly baked bread?”  “Yes sir.” “We’d like some of that bread please.” The bread duly arrived. And with it, my barramundi.

It was a simple case of a different use of language getting in the way of service. She was right, they didn’t serve bread with carpaccio,  (and nor did she necessarily have the authority to over-ride that rule), but I felt like the King in A.A. Milne’s poem, The King’s Breakfast, begging the Jersey cow for butter, and being offered marmalade instead. It doesn’t happen often in Manila, but when, just occasionally, someone understands me, and finds a way to accommodate my absurd requests, they have a friend for life. And in the meantime, I am learning to find ways around the language barrier!

*With apologies to A.A.Milne & E.H. Shepard