A couple summers ago my sister Hannah and I sailed across the Straights of Gibraltar from Tarifa, Spain to some town in Morocco where we rode a camel for a dollar. We stayed in the colorful Hotel Tarik that included: a nice view, dinner, bugs to chomp you in your sleep. 
We watched the sun sink over the Mediterranean and the Atlantic at the same time and sipped steaming mint teas at the bar before heading to the restaurant for dinner. The cavernous dining room was empty. The maitre d’–in a sharp tux–deposited us at a table. Paper napkins. Grungy floors. Guy in tux? 
He returned shortly and said, “Soup or fish?” Hannie and I waited for more details like what kind of soup or any side dishes to the fish, then looked at each other and back at him. He clarified: “Soup, fish, ice cream? Breakfast? You have breakfast at dinner?” This was making less and less sense, so I made a decision: “I’ll have the fish.” “Me, too. Fish,” said Han. This in turn confused the tux. “No,” he said. “Soup. Fish. Then ice cream.” Oh. So why did he say ‘OR’ five times? And what did breakfast have to do with anything? We ended up with veggie soup, fried, breaded fish of generic quality and french fries. Odd. 
A German couple we’d seen in the lobby earlier came in and was seated at a table nearby. They ordered wine, so we called the tux over and ordered that too because he hadn’t brought or offered anything at all to drink. He disappeared without asking whether we wanted red or white and returned with Guerrouane Rouge—a red Moroccan wine. Red wine with a glorified fish stick? Wait–Morocco makes wine?? Oh well, we liked it. We left the restaurant at the same time as the German couple, and thankful for the unique wine experience I held up the label and said, “Good wine, huh?” “Good night!” said the German lady. “Yes!” said the German man loudly, “Good night!” I guess ‘wine’ sounds like ‘night!’ 
Conclusion: East or West, communication is stressed at best.
Where Globe-Trotting meets Beach-Combing
