We drove to Sawgrass Mills yesterday and while Hania went in to shop, I walked into Paul’s for a lemonade. A family of four got in line ahead of me: a very tall mother, an average height father, and two little girls. They were speaking a foreign language; it was close to lunchtime; I figured it would take a while. I told the mother I was just getting a drink and asked if I could go ahead of them. She gave me a reluctant nod and a face that expressed disapproval, and mild disgust.
Waiting to place my order, I listened closely to their speech, which sounded Slavic. “Where are you from?” I asked in what I thought of as a friendly tone.
“Russia,” the mother said unwillingly.
And then I realized the problem: I had done something that is probably forbidden in the code of Russian queuing etiquette.
I ordered my lemonade and paid for it as quickly as possible, with cash. “Spasiba” I said to the mother as I departed, and she answered with a barely audible grunt.
