I'm sorry to say that my first attempt at international diplomacy was an abysmal failure. When, upon arriving in the home of my host family in France on the Day of Kings, I received the honor, by way of the gateau des Rois, in which a small replica of a king was buried, of deciding which of two small boys would be the king of the house for the day and, rather than splitting the plastic king in two so that each boy could rule equally, as good King Solomon would surely have advised, I chose the younger of the two boys. The eldest, at 5, could certainly understand that it was just a game and be the gracious statesman by allowing his younger brother to receive the honor. Shockingly not.
So that, the deed being done, the 3-year-old oblivious to my favored choice, ate his cake. The 5-year-old, with a decidedly more generous appreciation for the tradition, bemoaned his demotion and hollered loudly at this foreigner who so rudely ignored the heirarchy. Graciously, my language skills were still sorely lacking, and I remained unaware of any unwholesome talk coming out of his mouth, though distinctly aware through universal screaming noises that he was upset.
We only reached peace much later after I was subjected to a long game of bouncy ball of which the rules changed constantly and, to my ears, incoherently.
I never did master the rules of French or 5-year-old parlance.