Way back when, I used to be a tour guide at a tourism park. Our workplace lacked any formal structure for dealing with lost property, and we generally just dropped everything at reservations with those long-suffering souls who were also responsible for directing tour groups, selling tickets, answering phones, and acting as the information desk. The rest of us were generally tied up for most of the day and weren’t always able to roam the park looking for sunglasses and water bottles.

One day, when I happened to have nearly two hours without a booked tour, an older husband and wife approached me at my station.

Woman Guest: “Hello. We might have lost a hat.”

Me: “Might have?”

Woman Guest: “Yes, my husband has a bucket hat, and we can’t find it. We might have left it on the bus, or at our hotel, or at the last place, or it might be here. Normally, we wouldn’t bother, but the hat was a gift from our granddaughter, and it has sentimental value.”

Man Guest: “Sorry to bother you.”

Me: “Not at all! Let’s head to reservations and see if anyone’s handed it in.”

So, off we went. Reservations didn’t have any lost property at all from that day, so I walked around the entire park (a sizable distance) and spoke to every employee I could find in every department with the couple in tow. Not one employee had seen the hat. The couple and I also retraced their steps throughout the park, carefully checking every seat and every stop for rogue bucket hats. Nothing.

The entire time, the husband repeatedly apologised for taking up so much of my time, while the wife repeatedly listed all the places the hat might be that weren’t in our park. I repeatedly reassured the husband that it was fine and repeatedly responded to the wife with murmured acknowledgments and the occasional, “Did you give them a ring?”

After more than ninety minutes, we had checked everywhere, and we had not found one stray shred of fabric of the hat.

Me: “I’m sorry that we haven’t found the hat.”

Woman Guest: “Well, what are you going to do about it?”

Me: “Sorry?”

Woman Guest: “How are you going to find the hat?”

Me: “…Ma’am, the hat is not in our park. I’m not sure what else I can do to help you find this hat. Will you be travelling back today on the same bus? Do you need a contact number for the bus company, or your previous stop?”

Woman Guest: “What are you talking about?”

Me: “To check if they’ve got the hat.”

Woman Guest: “Well, aren’t you going to find it?”

Me: “…”

Woman Guest: *To her husband* “I can’t believe this!” *Back to me* “You said you were going to help us. What happens now, hmm?”

Me: “Ma’am, I’m sorry we didn’t find your hat, but I need to get back to work.”

Before his wife could start berating me, the husband loudly spoke over the top of her.

Man Guest: “Thank you, and have a good day.”

Woman Guest: *Sneering* “Yes, thank you for alllll your help.”

I just about ran from that couple, and I barely made it back in time for my next tour. Short of calling the other businesses directly or pulling a bucket hat out of my broad-brimmed one, I’m not sure what else I could have done for them. I understand sentimentality, but believe it or not, people, being a tour guide doesn’t make you a wizard.

 I work at a non-profit that hosts a major festival every year. The main draw of the festival is the tours of private houses and gardens, which are $75. They last three hours, include six to eight properties, and are self-guided, with volunteer docents providing tours inside the houses.

We also have our “premium” tours, which are $250, last two hours, and include four to six properties, but are led by certified tour guides and include lectures by local experts. I personally don’t think it’s worth the cost, but others evidently do as most of these tours are sold out.

Me: “Thank you for calling [Non-Profit] ticket office. This is [My Name] speaking; how can I help you?”

Caller: “My name is [Caller], and I bought tickets for the garden tour tomorrow. I have friends in town, and they said that tomorrow is the Saint Patrick’s Day parade and there will be absolutely no parking. What am I supposed to do?”

Me: “Are you able to get a taxi, bus, or rideshare downtown, or do you have to drive?”

Caller: “I have to drive because I’m coming from [Municipality forty-five minutes away], and that’s too far for a cab. I just don’t understand why you would schedule a $250 tour on the same day as a parade. That’s just poor planning.”

Me: “I understand that must be frustrating—”

Caller: “I don’t need your platitudes. I’ve been coming to your city for six years, and it’s never been on that date. I just can’t believe your organization would do that.”

Me: “We’ve had this event around this time of year for over seventy-five years, ma’am. Granted, the last few years have been a bit wonky because of [contagious illness], but it’s always in March and April.”

Caller: “I don’t understand why you would put a $250 event on the same day as a parade. Why did you do that? Don’t you know that makes it harder for people to attend?”

Me: “Most people stay downtown within walking distance of the festival, so they don’t have to worry about parking. If you arrive early enough, I’m sure you could—”

Caller: “My friends said it’s absolutely packed and there’s no way to find parking. I just can’t believe your organization would do this. I organize events for a charity in Connecticut, and I always check the calendar when I’m planning events. Why didn’t you check the calendar and see that the parade was today?”

Me: “A lot of people like to attend the parade as well as the festival, so it’s not typically an issue.”

Caller: “I am really disappointed in your organization. Now I’m out $250.”

Me: “We do not offer refunds, but I would be happy to change your ticket over to another event—”

Caller: “No, I looked, and all of the other events are way less than $250. I don’t want to go to another event. I just want you to know how disappointed I am.”

While I’m not supposed to do it without a manager’s approval, we do offer refunds under special circumstances. Since this is a sold-out event and we could pretty easily sell the ticket before tomorrow, she will probably approve a refund to appease the customer. If not, we could also convert the ticket price into a tax-deductible donation, which would grant her membership status, allowing free admission to our two-house museums and a 20% discount at our shop. I can’t tell her this until I get permission from my manager.

Me: “I hear you, and I want to see if there’s something more I can do for you. Can I take your name and number, give my manager a call, and then call you back?”

Caller: “I’ll give you my information, and you pass it on to your manager. I’m sure you won’t actually do it, but here it is.” *Gives her information*

Me: “My manager takes things like this very seriously, and I will be sure to speak with her and give you a call back as soon as I can. Is there a preferred time today that you would like a call back?”

Caller: “I’ll have my cell phone on me all day.” *Click*

I go to my manager’s office to fill her in on the situation. [Manager] is a sweet-as-pie older southern lady who takes absolutely no crap. She assures me that she’ll take care of it, and I return to my desk. A few minutes later, she comes by to let me know what happened.

Manager: “I called that lady and tried to offer her a refund, but she hung up on me before I could explain it! She just said, ‘I’m very disappointed in your organization,’ and hung up. I’m not even going to bother calling her back.”

I hope she’s satisfied that she lost out on $250 and a fun time at the festival just so she could let us know how disappointing we are.

Some years ago, when I was in my early twenties, my recently retired parents spent a month in New England (we are from regular England) and invited me to fly out and spend a week with them.

One day, my mother and I take a train to Boston to spend the day looking around the city. My mother is quite short (around 4’11”, but she insists she’s 5’2″ because she poofs her hair up) and has habitually worn the highest heels she can get, including while at work as a teacher. She makes running around after thirty six-year-olds on three-inch stilettos look easy! On this particular day, she has on ankle boots with a two-inch heel, which is what she considers a comfy walking shoe. I am wearing actual walking boots.

As we leave one tourist attraction, we realise we don’t know how to get to the next one we want to visit, though we know it’s some way across the city centre. (This was before smartphones were commonplace.) Fortunately, we soon spot a small, freestanding information kiosk — the little shack sort where the worker inside speaks to you through a window — and go over to ask for directions.

There is a young man in the kiosk yelling greetings to people who pass by and seemingly trying to attract interest, yet our walking up to his counter seems to really surprise him. 

Worker: “Whoa! There you are!”

Me: “Hi. Can you tell us how to get to Faneuil Hall, please?”

Worker: “Uhhhh… from here?”

I have it in me to say something sarcastic but rein it in.

Me: “Yes.”

He begins to give directions, but it quickly becomes very confusing, as he is referring to everything as “that place, you know”, and “that street where the thing is”. I try and stop him to ask for street names, but he suddenly leans out of the window and looks at my mother’s feet.

Worker: “Whoa! Were you going to walk there?”

Us: “Yes.”

Worker: “You can’t walk there in those shoes, lady; something’ll happen.”

Mum: “What do you mean? What’ll happen?”

Worker: “You’ll fall off them and die or something. I dunno, but you can’t walk that far in those heels. It won’t work.”

Mum: “I’ve been walking around in these all day.”

Worker: “No way! You just got out of your car.”

My mum and I glance at each other wondering what to do. We’re not sure where else we can get directions from, as it’s early on a weekday afternoon and the streets are pretty quiet apart from other tourists. We haven’t been near a car since my dad dropped us off at the train station, so I’m not sure why the guy thought we’d just got out of one.

Me: “Look, can you just let us know how far away it is and we’ll decide if we can walk it?”

Worker: “You can’t walk it. Nobody can walk it. It’s too far. Where are you even from that you think you can walk that far?”

Mum: *Flustered* “We’re from England.”

A look of dawning delight crosses the man’s face.

Worker: “Where the Moomins are from?!”

I know that the Moomins are definitely not from England, but it seems like I might get somewhere if I agree, so I say yes.

Worker: “Okay, then, I’ll let you walk there. Maybe you won’t fall off. Here.”

He then produces a leaflet with a little map of the city centre and a pen, circles where we are and where Faneuil Hall is, and draws a line suggesting the best route. It takes him about twenty seconds, and though he doesn’t say any directions to us, it is pretty clear from the map where we need to go. We thank him.

As we walk away, my mother turns to me looking very serious.

Mum: “[My Name], do you know what weed smells like?”

Me: “Yes, like that guy.”

Mum: “Just promise me that if you ever do it, you won’t do it at work.”

I promised, and we had a nice time at Faneuil Hall.

I am on an excursion to swim with stingrays at a place where they are pretty used to humans. Of course, they are still wild animals and can be quite dangerous, so we are told some safety rules. The most important is to never step or walk over the sand as stingrays hide under the sand and will sting you if you step on them. (Seems fair!) Instead, you keep your feet in contact with the bottom and shuffle. We are also told how to put out our arms to interest the stingrays in landing on us. If one does, we are told to stand perfectly still, among other things. 

I get in the water. 

Me: “[Guide], I can’t touch the bottom. Is that a problem? Is there a special way I need to swim to not bother the stingrays?”

Guide: “No. Just move very slowly. “

I make myself look like a rock or shelf or whatever stingrays think you look like with your arms out, and a HUGE one comes over and lands on me. (The big ones are apparently female.) It is AMAZING! However, the guide comes rushing over, yelling at me because I am moving backward. 

Guide: “I told you to stand perfectly still! You have to stop moving!”

Me: “I told you that I haven’t been able to touch the bottom since we got in the water. I’m close to a foot shorter than everyone else on this tour. How do you expect me to stand still when I can’t touch the bottom?”

Guide: “Just stop swimming! You can’t move when one is sitting on you!”

Me: “I’m not swimming; I’m just floating!”

Guide: “You are moving! You have to stand still!”

Me: “Tell her that!”

I nod to the stingray who’s been gently swimming herself and me around since she landed. 

The guide was not happy, but there really wasn’t anything I could do. The stingray weighed more than me; even if I had been able to somewhat touch the ground, she still would have been able to push me around. It was a fun little ride until she got bored with me!

I work at a local tourist spot as a food services supervisor, and we have a few different food outlets in the park. As a supervisor, I’ve had to deal with all kinds of challenging customers, including some that have turned out well (communicating with deaf customers, a Korean group who wanted $200 worth of hamburgers — twice) and not-so-well (a customer who wanted a free bottle of water and screamed at me, an Asian man who accused me of discrimination, a lady who said abusive things because she lost $2 in a vending machine, and all sorts of silly food requests/complaints). Fun times.

One of the dumbest ones I came across, though, was dealt with by a coworker of mine.

Near the very end of the day, a lady came up to our fish and chips window.

Customer: “I want a four-piece chicken strip combo. I want it split four ways for my four children.”

Coworker: “Sure, but since the combo comes with a single small fries, each of those four portions would include just one chicken strip and a few fries.”

He repeats this a couple of times, but she impatiently tells him that’s okay. When she comes to pick up her order:

Customer: *Irate* “What is this?! Each of these portions needs to have at least two strips and a small fries!”

Coworker: “If you’d like eight strips and four small fries, then that will be [higher price].”

Customer: “No! I’m only willing to pay [price of a single combo]! Why are you so incompetent?”

The fish and chips place is in a remote location from the main kitchen, so there is no manager there, and my coworker isn’t about to make her more chicken strips and fries for free, so finally, he tells her:

Coworker: “This outlet is now closed. If you have any more issues, you should take it up with the manager.”

The customer left as he closed the shutter, but then she came around to the side door of the building and screamed at him some more. Even when they closed the door, she waited for them and followed them across the park when they walked back to the main kitchen… where they were able to meet up with the manager and she was asked to leave the park. 

We don’t allow meal-splitting anymore; if customers want something split, we’ll give them plates and knives and they can do their own portions.