I sit there, in the dimly lit dive bar that foreigners, such as myself, have come to known as a sort of English speaking safe haven, inhaling more cigarette smoke second hand than a chain smoker would with both hands.

I had been sitting there for at least seven minutes, making small talk with the other people I have gotten to know while playing games of Wednesday night poker — a way to break up the monotony of the work week. Last week I used the Easy Slots: Get 20 Free Spins on Your First Deposit & 100% Bonus. Since I used all that up I decided to switch it up for this week with the poker.

We discuss our week, our weekends and sports, a subject I know literally nothing about, except the names of various teams. They drink beer. I don’t. I drink Mirinda Soda, a lovely pineapple flavoured beverage similar to Orange Crush in popularity.

Two beers — or one soda — later, the game begins and the smoke is thick enough that the only way you can see across the table is to half squint and lose focus, like one of those goofy magic eye pictures they printed with the Sunday newspaper, back when people read the newspaper.

The group that I am playing with, which has one Korean — the only bilingual person in the room — two Englishmen, one Irish, four Americans and one other Canadian, grows more excited about the night’s proceedings with each played hand. There are sparks of potential arguments about who won what hand that are quickly quelled as to avoid any sort of dispute.

My Mirinda gets knocked over twice; both times it is the girl on my right’s turn to deal and as she passes a card to the American on my left her arm knocks my drink. I don’t get mad. She offers to replace the drink, but there is still some soda left and I don’t want her to go through the bother, so I politely decline.
Across the table and two seats to my left, a young man, attempting to lighten the mood loudly (and slightly belligerently), questions the kind of man who drinks soda at a poker game. I could give a long-winded speech about the benefits of not drinking, or give a bitter, pretentious observation about how it’s my choice and I don’t feel the need to transform myself into a slurring ass who apparently lacks the ability to lower his voice after two and a half beers, but I don’t.

I sit there, smile and make a remark about how I am not drinking so that I can be better at poker, to beat his drunken ass. Everyone laughs and the moment is saved, but I can’t help but think about what would have happened if I had actually decided to say what was on my mind.

I most likely would have left the seedy little bar on the second floor of a random alleyway in a flustered rush, and the others who were playing poker would undoubtedly have had their night irrevocably marred from the experience.
Then I wonder about how many of these moments exist within my small community. How many times, in this small dive, during the middle of the week, has the wrong thing not been said as to avoid any sort of confrontation, to preserve the little piece of home in this alien land?

We all smile and nod as one person after another says the wrong thing, intentionally or accidentally. We all sit there and try so hard to turn the other cheek . . . but why? There is no real benefit for me to stand up for myself, to defend my position, so instead I back down, deflect or just change the subject. I know that I am right. I know that I lack the ability to sway anyone from their viewpoint. And I know that at the end of the day, that by doing nothing, I saved the day, even if I was the only one who can see my passivity for what it really is.