After having resisted the desire to show off my English, I gave in to the temptation when the flight attendant wheeled the drinks cart by.
“What would you like to drink?” she asked.
I looked at the cart briefly, clueless, but I thought I saw one I could pronounce. “I would like a Zup, please.”
She tilted her head, and asked with a frown, “Excuse me?”
“I would like a … Zup,” I repeated louder this time, emphasizing my pronunciation.
She shook her head, puzzled, “I’m sorry.”
I pointed to the cluster of green cans.
“Oh, yes! You would like a 7Up,” she said, hiding a smile.
I felt myself turn purple from the humiliation. She handed me a can. “Thank you,” I managed.
“You are welcome.”
I leaned back and remembered the trips to the Black Sea, sitting behind Tati and wishing he drove faster. If only the pilot flew faster!
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