When you’ve lived abroad long enough, you start to collect a certain kind of story — the kind that once made you want to hide under a table, but now makes you laugh out loud over a glass of wine. They’re the linguistic train wrecks, the cultural collisions. I’ve had more than my fair share, and over time I’ve learned that humiliation and humour are basically the same thing — it just depends on how long you wait before telling the story.
I have this theory I’ve built up over the years: the more seriously I take something, the harder I’ll fall when I fail at it.
So now, I try to see the funny side of everything — every awkward moment, every misunderstanding, every cultural faceplant.
This attitude has mostly been shaped by my many, many, many cultural fails across different countries. Some were linguistic disasters; others were complete lapses in local common sense.
Let’s start with a linguistic one.
When I first moved to southern Italy, my soon-to-be in-laws made me a wonderful lunch. I, of course, had no problem eating it — I’m a total foodie and adore Italian cooking. I may have… overindulged slightly. My father-in-law, watching me happily devour everything, said:
“Ti piace mangiare, vero?” (You like to eat, don’t you?)
To which I enthusiastically replied, in my broken Italian:
“Sì, sono veramente una porca!”
Now, what I wanted to say was, “Yes, I’m a bit of a pig.”
What I actually said was: “Yes, I’m a complete slut.”
Needless to say, my father-in-law looked at my husband, winked, and said,
“Good one, son.”
That was the day I learned that enthusiasm in a second language can be a dangerous thing.
As for cultural fails… well, there’s a catalogue. There was the time I decided to sunbathe on a balcony in the centre of a Southern Italian city (not done — ever). Or the time I thought I’d impress some Southern Italian friends by cooking them dinner and decided to mix lemon and cream (Panna) in the same dish (also not done — and never forgiven).
What I’ve learned through all of this is that living abroad is basically one long lesson in humility. You can read every guidebook, study the etiquette, perfect your pronunciation — …and you’ll still find yourself accidentally shocking someone’s father over pasta.
But honestly, that’s the beauty of it. Every misstep is a story. Every blush is a bridge. And if you can laugh about it later — preferably over good wine — you’ve probably learned more about a culture than any classroom could ever teach you.