Fella behind me in line at the coffeeshop: big square body, old-fashioned hat, red nose, silver-headed cane, dressed all in black. He gets the company-mandated spiel on a ridiculously over-the-top specialty drink from the bloke behind the counter and nods all the while. When the sales pitch is done, he shakes the coffee-guy’s hand and asks his name. That’s old-school manners right there.

I get a warm feeling about my fellow man.

Then he says, “It’s nice to meet somebody at a register who speaks English,” and the feeling goes away.