Different Worlds

poliphilo made an entry this morning which inspired, in a somewhat skewed fashion, a singular memory from my college years.

I did most of my growing up in a small town. My father has two Ph.D.'s and a sophisticated mind, but his experience as a pastor in rural Idaho and then a public school teacher and administrator in a small town didn't exactly expose us to the more "sophisticated" levels of society.

Then, at some point during my high school years, he got involved with an exchange program with Japan, when our town became a sister town to one in Japan. He and my mom ended up making several trips to Japan, and at least one to China, and developed relationships of varying degrees of friendliness with a small number of Japanese officials.

I'm told my mother was once the only woman guest at a formal dinner in Japan. She had a lovely time, the men were very courteous and friendly, and she enjoyed sake for the first time. My mind is still boggling over that one.

Anyway, as a consequence of those connections my father was invited to a farewell dinner for a Japanese diplomat in Portland, OR, which was about 90 minutes from our home. It must have occurred sometime during my senior year of college, because that was when I had discovered the one kind of cocktail I liked. But I had not yet actually had a cocktail in the presence of my parents, who were "a-glass-of-wine-with-dinner-on-special-occasions" drinkers (unless dining with Japanese officials in Japan, apparently).

So the night of the party we dressed up in our Sunday best and drove to "the residence". We were so far out of our normal lives we might as well have been in Oz. We had never been anywhere like this and we didn't know anyone, except for my father's business acquaintance with the diplomat hosting it.

We were standing there in one of the richly furnished rooms, utter fish out of water, when we saw a table where a uniformed man was serving drinks. We got in line (as much to be doing something as actually needing a drink), and when it was my turn I said, "A screwdriver, please."

So simple. And yet it caused my father to remark, once we were standing alone again, "You handled that with aplomb."

I remember other tables of magnificent food, much of it being cooked right there in front of us. We ate, we looked at the house and the other guests, greeted the diplomat and wished him well, and then drove back home to our small town.

It was an experience unlike any other in my life. And remarkable as much for my dad's comment as anything else. And for my nervousness at ordering a cocktail in my parents' presence for the first time.