Why is rudeness so unsettling? And why when someone is rude to you is the natural English response to say "Sorry" - where does that come from? Is it really necessary to apologise to someone who has just been rude to you? Maybe it's a subtle way of pointing out to them that, even if they have none, you still have manners. And perhaps you are apologising on their behalf because the word sorry probably last passed their lips some time during their early childhood and they have forgotten how to form the particular muscular contortion of lips and tongue required to form the word. They need to be reminded what it looks and sounds like.
Rudeness is a deliberate and malicious display of disrespect. Our encounter with it occurred at lunch-time yesterday: actually, at Littlest's lunch-time-plus-an-hour and she was flagging - more steps, more dust, more wasps, more sun-exposure and another mediaeval town that interested her about as much as a book on the astrophysics of quasars might. Thunder rumbled above. The air was heavy with humidity. And on the umbrella'd piazza outside a pizzeria the waitress - angular features, small dark eyes, black hair in loosely falling ringlets and narrow pale lips - waved her notepad at us and gesticulated wildly while refusing to let us put two small and empty tables together.
"Where shall I pass? I cannot come and go! How can I serve?"
The father of a family on a table for six kindly said that they were about to leave, but sympathised when we said we wouldn't dream of staying. - he had observed the waitress 'being like that' with other customers!
We walked back to the other restaurant, the one nearest to the old stone gateway with its toothless sockets where once a portcullis might have repelled all those who sought to bring distemper inside its quiet walls.There we had a very fine meal - simply served but full of the aromas of Italy. My "Flakes" with a sauce of pears, leeks and cheese was a delicious pasta - those small pinch-closed parcels, like fortune cookies. I have no idea what they were stuffed with but my Italian was lacking in superlatives, "Molto buono!" was far from good enough. The boys had a wild boar and olive casserole with potato and artichoke side dishes; two of the girls had tagliatelle with wonderful pesto and the other had caprese (deep red tomatoes and plump mozarella salad). All of this brought to us with a smile. The rain stayed away, the thunder rolled off into the distance to trample another town, taking with it our frustration and leaving behind an indifferent sense of pity.
Therein lies the truth that rudeness is unforgivable and leads to pity. And however you package pity, whether saying 'what a pity!' or 'I pity you,' it is not a comfortable sentiment to receive. It should shame and bring about remorse but I suspect our raven-eyed vixen would bat it away angrily into the face of another hapless customer. Thankfully, in our experience, her rudeness makes her a very atypical Italian. Smiles cost nothing. But bigger smiles mean better service and the better the service, the bigger the tip.
Rudeness is a deliberate and malicious display of disrespect. Our encounter with it occurred at lunch-time yesterday: actually, at Littlest's lunch-time-plus-an-hour and she was flagging - more steps, more dust, more wasps, more sun-exposure and another mediaeval town that interested her about as much as a book on the astrophysics of quasars might. Thunder rumbled above. The air was heavy with humidity. And on the umbrella'd piazza outside a pizzeria the waitress - angular features, small dark eyes, black hair in loosely falling ringlets and narrow pale lips - waved her notepad at us and gesticulated wildly while refusing to let us put two small and empty tables together.
"Where shall I pass? I cannot come and go! How can I serve?"
The father of a family on a table for six kindly said that they were about to leave, but sympathised when we said we wouldn't dream of staying. - he had observed the waitress 'being like that' with other customers!
We walked back to the other restaurant, the one nearest to the old stone gateway with its toothless sockets where once a portcullis might have repelled all those who sought to bring distemper inside its quiet walls.There we had a very fine meal - simply served but full of the aromas of Italy. My "Flakes" with a sauce of pears, leeks and cheese was a delicious pasta - those small pinch-closed parcels, like fortune cookies. I have no idea what they were stuffed with but my Italian was lacking in superlatives, "Molto buono!" was far from good enough. The boys had a wild boar and olive casserole with potato and artichoke side dishes; two of the girls had tagliatelle with wonderful pesto and the other had caprese (deep red tomatoes and plump mozarella salad). All of this brought to us with a smile. The rain stayed away, the thunder rolled off into the distance to trample another town, taking with it our frustration and leaving behind an indifferent sense of pity.
Therein lies the truth that rudeness is unforgivable and leads to pity. And however you package pity, whether saying 'what a pity!' or 'I pity you,' it is not a comfortable sentiment to receive. It should shame and bring about remorse but I suspect our raven-eyed vixen would bat it away angrily into the face of another hapless customer. Thankfully, in our experience, her rudeness makes her a very atypical Italian. Smiles cost nothing. But bigger smiles mean better service and the better the service, the bigger the tip.
View from the polite restaurant
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