"I'm from South America" and other Fizzy Adventures

Last night provided more than its share of entertainment, not just from the company of an incredible editor/friend, some delicate sparkling wine and a chocolate souffle with hazelnut finish -- but an interesting man, apparently from South America.

I am fine meeting and talking with new people, that's sort of an expected element when you venture into the bar scene, in this case, we had chosen Pop Champagne in Pasadena. Very pink, girly, not cheesy nor loud, but actually comfortable enough to chat with a friend at 10 p.m. After making our perch at the bar and exhibiting an obvious interest in wanting to catch up, chatting incessantly to the point we often had to be flagged down by the bartender when he brought us our sustenance of food and drink.

Then he poked in.

"Are you getting food?" "Are you drinking champagne?" "I'm from South America." Yeah, that's great. "I'm from South America." Yes, I heard you, thank you. OK, the problem I have has nothing to do with men trying to start a conversation with a girl (that takes a lot of courage, I get it), my issue comes from a man or woman not understanding--or IGNORING--social cues in the twenty-first century. The best way I can say it: It is like they never learned how to survive or refused to adapt to the rules of decorum and manners. I'm not talking about tea-and-crumpets kind of manners, I'm referring to the way you act when you're in the real world element. You don't drop your pants while in a restaurant, you don't push people into the street in front of a car and ... you don't continue to interject a forced conversation upon two well-dressed (read: not dressed as sluts) ladies having a personal conversation, er, SIX TIMES.

After the fourth or fifth time literally interrupting our conversation about life, love and work, it was suddenly obvious to me that Mr. South Africa wasn't just lonely and interested in small chat, he was just plain ... clueless. Either out of annoyance or ignorance, Mr. South Africa wasn't get a clue, any of them actually. And I think that's when I stopped politely responding, "yes, I think we're getting the souffle du jour," "sure, I enjoy my champagne" and even offering a reciprocal cheers when he abruptly and haphazardly extended his arm -- drink in tow -- in front of my face. "I'm South American" he echoes a third time.

OK, now I have to say something.

"Can you please stop? I'm trying to talk to my friend" I offer with a kind but firm tone.

And that's when it started. The Portuguese, I mean. A flood of jumbled up angry, backward-sounding syllables, from which I could only make out "muto bono" because a Portuguese-speaking friend had once told me that in college.

"I think it's time to leave" my friend proffered.

"Good idea!"

To add insult to injury, Mr. South America even read our bill and started to advise us on the constitutes of a good tip.

"Adios un-amigo!"

Ugh. Remind me not to hang out with champagne-drinking, Pasadena-visiting South American men...ever. Cheers!