For example, when I lived in Ireland, I always said yes to tea right away and even accepted biscuits without being asked twice. Later, I learned that with the older generation, you’re supposed to politely refuse at least once.
Any similar experiences?
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In Czech it used to be a tradition to give your doctor a small gift like flowers or a houseplant when you visited them. I don’t think it’s common anymore but my mom still does it with her elderly doctor and it’s just wild to me.
This is more regional, but that officials in Berlin will make jokes. Combined with how dry Berlin humour is, it can take a while to realise that officials aren’t actually rejecting your request – you just need to reply them in kind as some sort of proof that you are worth their time. Do that, and they lighten up and help you out.
Cypriots are way more concerned with keeping serious stuff serious. I can’t imagine a public officer playing a joke on a citizen. Sarcasm would register as an insult.
Good to know. I would be so annoyed, if a no would not be accepted on the spot. But what do you do, if you really don’t like tea?
It’s ages ago that I lived in England. I remember volunteering at a youth center and trying to be polite. As a German I was used to shake everyones hand, entering a room. The kids did that the first two days, but told me the next day, that it is not done like that in England. Well….
> you’re supposed to politely refuse at least once
That sounds so stupid to me. If you don’t wanna give, then don’t offer, that’s fine, but if you still do, I have no reason to refuse. Knowing this, the best way I could help them is to ask : “Really ?”. If they still say yes, then I can’t do anything more.
Similar in Scotland. She (always a lady) has 40 – 50 cheap horrible biscuits arranged on a plate that her grandmother once owned. You compliment the cheap biscuits, someone takes the first one under cover of the telly being switched on, you eat one or two because you’re being judged, you may have to justify yourself (seven cheap shite biscuits with MY thighs?), you don’t want to know what happens to the poor soul that accepts the last biscuit.