a lesson in communication

When I was a teenager, my dad took the entire family on a holiday to South Korea. It was a cold evening but he insisted that we leave the warmth of the hotel room, so we slapped on our jackets and set off to explore the city.

How else better to experience Korea than to walk along the streets in search of supper? he reasoned. At that time, Dukin' Donuts had not made its way to Singapore and the only donuts we could find in Singapore were sugary ones baked and then fried in traditional bakeries. So when we spotted the glossy orange and purple sign in the distance, we voted unanimously to spend dad's won at an American chain. 

Although the donuts were American, the staff were not and soon we had trouble communicating that we needed milk for our coffee. All our hand signs and frantic attempts at mangling the word "milk" so that it would sound a little more korean (Milka, milo, milko, milku, merk etc ) came to naught and lady behind the counter remained as perplexed as ever. 

It was then that the hero, dad, brought his hand close to this chest, to where his boobs would have been if he were a lady, before mimicking the actions of a lady pumping her breast.

At once, the service staff guffawed and pulled out a tin of milk from beneath the counter shelf.

Everyone had a good laugh; some things are universal after all.