No sooner had I grasped the dictionary meaning of faux pas, I started making them. Umm, and in generous measures.
If you are wondering how socially outrageous I can be, you will be surprised, because I shock even myself. Sometimes my tongue runs away with my mouth so fast that I am unable to retrieve it. And then I shut up. That is the good part.
But if I forget to do so, more bizarre statements issue forth. From my mouth, that is. Then, short of putting a hand around my throat, to sort of choke myself, I have no other option. And that is the bad part.
I would like to claim that this was not always the case, but age and maturity compels me to confess that, unfortunately, I keep repeating the same mistakes, over and over again. And regrettably, I never end up learning any new lessons from them.
Meanwhile, on my visit to the Hashemite Kingdom of Jordan, I came upon the passionate side of Amman quite by chance.
On my first ever trip to the city, I decided to have lunch at a roadside cafe. After ordering a regular salad, I saw the waiter still hovering around us who kept waving the beverage menu at me.
“What juices do you have?” I asked politely.
“Fruit juice? Only Passion,” replied the guy, sotto voce.
“Sorry?” my husband and I chorused together.
“Passion,” he repeated in the same monotone.
“Is it fresh Passion or bottled one,” my spouse asked, smiling broadly.
I tried to kick him under the table but hit the chair leg instead, wincing in agony.
“Fresh Passion, Madam. We serve it chilled,” he explained, looking at me with twinkling eyes.
“Wow darling, he’s flirting with you,” my husband teased, in a stage whisper.
My kick under the table found its target this time and he grimaced in pain.
“So, you want to try it?” the waiter asked.
Under the mischievous gaze of my amused spouse, I felt a blush rise on my face. Out of sheer curiosity, we asked for a double serving and when the orange-coloured glasses arrived, we realized it was passion-fruit juice, which was simply called ‘Passion’ all over Amman. Another local custom to be remembered, we reminded each other. No more faux pas, hopefully.
In the airport on the way back, I headed for the executive lounge.
“You are traveling economy. This is for upper class passengers only,” the gentleman at the entrance told me frostily.
“But my ticket is business class,” I said, and then realized that the check-in counter person had mistakenly given me the wrong boarding-card.
Trudging downstairs, I was bristling to pick up a fight with anyone who stopped me. No one did. I marched back with a fresh boarding-pass, and tried to sail into the lounge this time, almost tripping on the carpet by the door.
“A drink for you, Ma’am?” the waiter was courtesy personified.
“We have coffee, tea, cocktails,” he said.
“Coca-Cola, Fanta,” he offered.
“And Passion? You have that?” I tried the local lingo.
“Ahem, excuse me, Ma’am?” the waiter looked puzzled.
My face reddened and my hands went around my throat to prevent any further faux pas from emerging.
“Fresh or bottled?” I requested politely.
“You mean fruit juice?” he asked.
I nodded in response.
“Aha! Of course,” he said as the penny dropped.
“Fresh Passion for you, Madam. We serve it chilled,” he twinkled.
