I just wanted to be neighborly and return his lemon

This took place when I was living in Northern Germany, which has its own distinct dialect, the vast majority of which I don’t speak. In fact, I would often just nod and smile in response to what neighbors, coworkers, or random strangers would say to me on the street knowing that they were speaking Platt/Plattdeutsch.<br><br>I assume that it was a Sunday morning (church day), because I was in my pajamas and the family wasn’t yet up. It was early, and I was enjoying the peacefulness of the morning… until I heard a knock on the door. Oh, great. Who could this be? I opened the door to see an older man, dressed in a dark suit and his wife in a dress with a headscarf.<br><br>As they greeted me in German, I smiled and nodded. The man held up a lemon; “Did you forget to ask for this when you bought the cherries?” I was confused because I hadn’t bought any cherries. I responded (in English), “No… did you mistake me for someone else?” He responded in German, and I of course just nodded and smiled. <br><br>Well, here is where it starts getting weird. This couple steps into my foyer, and I’m still in my pajamas. I try to explain again that I didn’t buy any cherries from them, but they fully enter my house. I’m confused and still trying to wrap my head around what was happening, all the while trying to figure out a plan to get them out. Before I could, they were already in my kitchen, and the wife was making herself at home and sniffing around my refrigerator.<br><br>I finally thought of a plan; I quickly got a bottle of diet juice from the fridge, and as she was holding the lemon, I suggested mixing it with the juice. This apparently made her happy, and I took them out the patio where we sat and mixed the lemonade and I played dumb as they tried to talk to me in Platt (which I didn’t speak). <br><br>I still have no idea what they were trying to say, but I wasn’t going to tell them that I didn’t speak Platt and give them an opening to continue to pry. Finally, it dawned on them. When the husband realized that I wasn’t the person who bought the cherries, he says to me in broken English; “Sorry… we thought you were _walloon._” (I was an American).<br><br>I guess the Walloons also lived in our subdivision, but it was a massive subdivision. I still have no idea how they thought I was Walloon… but I’m sure it was because I didn’t speak Platt or German very well. It didn’t matter, because they went on to invite us over to dinner, and *expected us to attend* because the wife had already started to prepare the meal. She had spent hours on it, and they told us that she was angry that we wouldn’t be able to come. I told them that we would try, but of course never did. <br><br>After that, I would occasionally encounter the husband, and he would always be this sulky neighbor whenever I saw him. *Let’s not meet again.*