When I was in Iceland, our direction-finding compound was several miles off-base to get away from the electronic noise there. Being isolated, we had a fence around it with a guard shack containing a Marine.

One night, whoever we got was really gung ho and called in on his walkie every half-hour for a radio check, addressing us as November Sahara Gulf (Naval Security Group).

I was in the shop where the radio was for the first couple of calls but didn’t bother correcting him. Then, I left to do some maintenance.

Sometime later, I passed by the lead’s desk and he was on the phone.

Lead: “She’s our only maintenance person and has more to do than sit by the radio waiting for your calls. Knock it off.” *Turning to me* “How often was our guard calling in?”

Me: “About every half-hour.”

Lead: “You missed two and he was worried.”

We got the same one — I think — a couple more times but he’d check only at the beginning of the watch.

This happened when I was studying history and ethnology at the University of Iceland in 2011 or 2012. We had gotten some sort of task that demanded that we go to the university library to find different books to study to deal with the task.

Off I went and borrowed different books, some new and some quite old.

After I got back to my apartment and started reading, I quickly noticed that one of the books was not possible to read. Almost all the pages were still uncut!

For those who might not know, books — especially back in the day — used to be made up of double or more folded sheets of paper. After the binding was done, the pages would be physically cut on the edges in order to make it possible to read them. That’s why quite many old books might have some rough edges on them.

This book was at least fifty years old, yellow from age, and clearly not something the library had gotten recently — but I was apparently the very first one to actually open and read this book since it had been placed on the shelf.

In theory, I could just have cut the pages myself and the library would never have known the difference, but I decided to go back and show them at the library. None of the librarians had ever witnessed anything like this before, but it most definitely did amuse us.

This happened some years ago when I was in my early twenties, living and studying in Iceland. I once had to do a Uni assignment on heavy metal music. I went to borrow the only book in the city library about the history of heavy metal music.

I couldn’t find it, so I asked a librarian for help. Next to her was another patron who had been chit-chatting with her. As soon as I mentioned the book, he jumped up.

Patron: “I know that book!”

And he went to find it for me — all the while sort of complaining that it’s the devil’s music and so on (both in a joking but also serious tone).

He only pointed the book out for me but refused to touch it. As soon as I picked it up, the guy seriously made the cross with his fingers against the book!

The librarian and I talked a bit about this type of music, while the guy rambled on and on about it being bad and associated with the devil.

Then, he made the assumption of the year for me.

Patron: “Since you’re such a big fan of metal music, you must be covered in tattoos! And you probably smoke and drink and party all the time!”

None of that was true in any sense.

In his (tiny) defense, I was covered up in bicycling gear due to a fairly cold spring day, so he could only see my very plain face.

And then, he gave me the best offer ever: a promise to introduce me to the world of classical music. The joke’s on him, though.

Me: “Actually, I’ve been playing the flute since I was eleven, played in a harmony orchestra for many years, and am an avid fan of classical music, operas, and many others.”

The look on his face when I revealed that none of his assumptions and heavy metal stereotypes were true to me was absolutely priceless.

I live in Iceland, and I used to work in a mini supermarket in the city centre. An American woman bought some groceries. Fifteen minutes later, she came back.

Customer: *Yelling at me* “All your products are expired!”

Me: “Ma’am, in Europe, we format dates day, then month, and then year.”

Customer: “I don’t believe you! I want a refund!”

Me: “I can’t do that; the items aren’t expired.”

She got extra mad.

Customer: “I want a refund now!”

Regular Customer: “Ma’am, the dates are formatted differently; your groceries aren’t expired.”

Customer: “No, they’re expired! I want a refund!”

Me: “Good luck finding another store to sell you your groceries, ma’am. Everything is expired here in Iceland.”

I work in a cafeteria in a popular tourist place. We get customers from all over the world, many of whom speak English. While English is my third language, I would say I’m fairly fluent in it.

A middle-aged lady, most likely from the US by her accent, comes to the counter. She seems a bit upper-class in her dressing and actions, but as I’m from a small village in the middle of nowhere, I would have said that about pretty basically anyone from a bigger city!

Customer: “Could you tell me where your restroom is, please?”

I am very confused as I have never heard that word before.

Me: “Um… I’m sorry?”

Customer: *Scoffs.* “Restroom. Where is your restroom?”

Me: “Restroom?”

The customer now has a bit of an annoyed tone, like “I cannot believe you’re making me say it.”

Customer: “Toilet! Where is your toilet?!“

Me: “Oh! Just around the corner over there.”

The customer huffed and went on her way. I cannot remember if she thanked me because I was so confused as to why you would call a toilet a “restroom”. Who would go there to rest or relax?

Later on, I did find out that there are quite a few different words in English for toilet, and that “restroom” is another word for a public toilet. But I’m still confused as to why it was such a hassle to just call it a toilet.