A Battle of Wills

Scene: Vienna train station, afternoon.  It's snowing.  A young woman, WHITNEY, steps up to the ticket counter, eyes shining and crisp bills clenched tight in her hand.  A ruddy-faced Viennese railway worker, RICHARD, is on the other side of the counter sporting his official vest, tie, and train-shaped-tie-clip.  

WHITNEY (in painfully slow but clear German): I would like to please purchase a ticket to Stuttgart for tomorrow morning.

RICHARD (in normal-person-speed German): Blah blah blah, important details, et cetera.

WHITNEY: Ja, ja, okay.

RICHARD: [unintelligible, convoluted, and supersonic-speed German]

WHITNEY: Huh?

RICHARD: [same thing, only I'm pretty sure faster this time]

WHITNEY: Huh?

RICHARD: [same thing again.  Lightning speed!]

WHITNEY: Uhhmm.... ja?

RICHARD (smiling knowingly, leaning forward, and whispering in perfect English): You know, we could actually speak English if you like.

WHITNEY: [cries]

Curtain.

But seriously, this happens all the time.  The Wieners are truly kind and will listen to me butcher their language up to a certain point, but there inevitably comes a time when their desire to conduct business and/or life at a normal pace surmounts my desire to practice my German.  Sigh.