Coming from the land of political correctness, I have often been surprised by the lack of PC culture in Europe. Diversity is the exception, rather than the rule, and so political correctness has not yet taken root. I dated a Swiss person who thought that “ching chong wing wong” should either be seen as a funny joke or as an effort at cultural outreach and understanding, and I have met with looks of blank confusion when someone realized that I was not yet another mail-order bride from Asia. Better to turn it into a humorous anecdote than let it be a source of real annoyance. So, two humorous anecdotes…
When I was in Ireland, the whitest country I have ever been to, my friend and I were having a post-dive snack with two other divers. One of them had his wife and two children in tow: one was still an infant, and the other was about seven. The seven-year-old stood behind his dad's shoulder and stared at me so hard without blinking that I was surprised his eyeballs didn’t dry up and fall out of his head. His parents didn’t notice, but my friend made a comment under his breath that maybe someone should say something. What could you say? "Stop staring at the chink?" After a while, the baby started staring, as babies do, and his mom noticed, and she pointed out that he was “fascinated,” so I made a snarky comment, totally deadpan, “Yeah, it’s the yellow skin and the slanty eyes.” My friend and I had difficulty not dying of laughter as we watched the sudden shock spreading around the table.
Then this past weekend, I was having dinner with friends in Lugano, in the eastern, Italian-speaking region of Switzerland, and my Italian-speaking friend struck up conversation with the waiter, who then asked her where we were from. She responded that we were from the U.S. and Australia, and he asked again where I was from, China? She replied that I was Chinese, but from the U.S., and he turned to me and leaned in, about to speak. I prepared myself for a poorly-delivered Chinese phrase, ready to respond with “Oh, your Chinese is quite good!” but he instead gave what is apparently the Italian equivalent of “ching chong wing wong.” Sudden shock spread around the table. He later asked if I could translate the menu into Chinese, and I sat there, passive-aggressively wishing I knew how to write “goat testicles with dung sauce” in Chinese. I declined, seeing as my knowledge of written Chinese would only have allowed me to translate the menu if it had dishes called “Good morning” or “Don’t forget your homework.”
In any case, Lugano was great: good food, good wine, good friends, and sunshine. Summer is gone in Zurich, and we are getting ready for seven months of clouds and rain, but the Italian-speaking portion of Switzerland knows nothing of that. There is a tunnel that goes through the Alps between German-speaking Switzerland and Italian-speaking Switzerland, and most days, if it is raining in Zurich, once you go through that tunnel, you come out into a clear, sunny day. It’s like coming out of a tornado in Kansas and landing in Oz, except that there aren’t any Munchkins, and the people make weird ethnic jokes.
Sunshine notwithstanding, Lugano is still part of Switzerland, and like all good Swiss towns, they love a good street festival. We arrived in Lugano and were (not) surprised to find that there was some sort of street festival going on. We never determined what the reason was for this particular festival, but it involved large vats of polenta, which just looked like giant masses of yellow glop. People lined up in Disneyland lines to get a plate of this glop, which the servers stirred with large wooden spades and ladled onto their plates in a manner reminiscent of the cook in Oliver Twist. Each mound, I mean individual serving of polenta would then be topped with a ladleful of cheese sauce or some type of indeterminate meat sauce. Mm… mass-produced yellow glop with indeterminate meat sauce…
Going to Ireland this weekend to see if clouds and rain look different in another country.
When I was in Ireland, the whitest country I have ever been to, my friend and I were having a post-dive snack with two other divers. One of them had his wife and two children in tow: one was still an infant, and the other was about seven. The seven-year-old stood behind his dad's shoulder and stared at me so hard without blinking that I was surprised his eyeballs didn’t dry up and fall out of his head. His parents didn’t notice, but my friend made a comment under his breath that maybe someone should say something. What could you say? "Stop staring at the chink?" After a while, the baby started staring, as babies do, and his mom noticed, and she pointed out that he was “fascinated,” so I made a snarky comment, totally deadpan, “Yeah, it’s the yellow skin and the slanty eyes.” My friend and I had difficulty not dying of laughter as we watched the sudden shock spreading around the table.
Then this past weekend, I was having dinner with friends in Lugano, in the eastern, Italian-speaking region of Switzerland, and my Italian-speaking friend struck up conversation with the waiter, who then asked her where we were from. She responded that we were from the U.S. and Australia, and he asked again where I was from, China? She replied that I was Chinese, but from the U.S., and he turned to me and leaned in, about to speak. I prepared myself for a poorly-delivered Chinese phrase, ready to respond with “Oh, your Chinese is quite good!” but he instead gave what is apparently the Italian equivalent of “ching chong wing wong.” Sudden shock spread around the table. He later asked if I could translate the menu into Chinese, and I sat there, passive-aggressively wishing I knew how to write “goat testicles with dung sauce” in Chinese. I declined, seeing as my knowledge of written Chinese would only have allowed me to translate the menu if it had dishes called “Good morning” or “Don’t forget your homework.”
In any case, Lugano was great: good food, good wine, good friends, and sunshine. Summer is gone in Zurich, and we are getting ready for seven months of clouds and rain, but the Italian-speaking portion of Switzerland knows nothing of that. There is a tunnel that goes through the Alps between German-speaking Switzerland and Italian-speaking Switzerland, and most days, if it is raining in Zurich, once you go through that tunnel, you come out into a clear, sunny day. It’s like coming out of a tornado in Kansas and landing in Oz, except that there aren’t any Munchkins, and the people make weird ethnic jokes.
Sunshine notwithstanding, Lugano is still part of Switzerland, and like all good Swiss towns, they love a good street festival. We arrived in Lugano and were (not) surprised to find that there was some sort of street festival going on. We never determined what the reason was for this particular festival, but it involved large vats of polenta, which just looked like giant masses of yellow glop. People lined up in Disneyland lines to get a plate of this glop, which the servers stirred with large wooden spades and ladled onto their plates in a manner reminiscent of the cook in Oliver Twist. Each mound, I mean individual serving of polenta would then be topped with a ladleful of cheese sauce or some type of indeterminate meat sauce. Mm… mass-produced yellow glop with indeterminate meat sauce…
Going to Ireland this weekend to see if clouds and rain look different in another country.
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