(I’m in tenth grade. My English teacher is a first-year teacher, and is very mild-mannered. My classmates figure this out quickly, and take advantage of it. Despite being in an honors class, we learn nothing all year, as everyone constantly talks and argues over the teacher. She usually gives up midway through the period. I am naturally introverted, and none of my friends are in my class, so I just try to focus on my work and tune out my classmates. At the end of the year, we are starting to pick out classes for the next year. My teacher gets up to speak.)

Teacher: “QUIET!”

(Everyone shuts up and stares, as we’ve never heard her raise her voice.)

Teacher: “I know it’s class-picking day for next year. I also know that many of you will ask me if you can take Advanced Placement English next year for college credit. The answer is no.”

(The class erupts in protest.)

Teacher: “You will let me finish! This class has been extremely disrespectful all year. AP classes are a privilege, not a right, and none of you have behaved well enough to earn it. Now, I will call each of you up, and I will tell you what level of English you’ll be in next year. Most of you don’t even deserve to be in honors.”

(She stomps back to her desk, sits down, and starts barking out last names. As I sit near her desk, I can hear most of my classmates begging to take AP or honors. She flatly denies every request. I’m the last one she calls up.)

Teacher: *barks* “[My Last Name]!”

(I timidly approach.)

Teacher: *quietly* “Now, what did you have in mind for next year?”

(I really want AP English, but I remember what she said, so I decide to play it safe.)

Me: “Um… honors, I guess. If that’s okay with you.”

Teacher: “Oh. I had you pegged as an AP English student next year.”

Me: “Well… I’d like to take AP, but you said you weren’t going to approve it.”

Teacher: “Ah, you were paying attention. But I always intended to make an exception for my best students. In this period, that’s you. You are a hard worker, and it shows.” *signs the paper and hands it back to me* “Plus, you’ve been quiet in class all year. I appreciate that. Now, don’t mention this to anyone else.”

(The bell rang. I ducked out. Being an introvert does pay off sometimes!)

(I go to Turkey on holiday, and the hotel has a breakfast buffet that is the same every day, apart from one item that they cook while you wait. It is always the same elderly, smiley guy cooking. A few days in, he is frying up some amazing-looking pancakes, so I figure I’ll give it a shot. They are delicious. They are so good, in fact, that we go back for seconds, and he is very happy about it. The next day, he is cooking eggs. I’m not really a huge fan, so I don’t go and take any. The day after, there’s another egg dish, so, this happens:)

Me: *after grabbing some eggs for my dad* “Excuse me. You wouldn’t happen to be cooking pancakes again this week?”

Chef: “Yes, pancakes in two days! You like them?”

Me: “Yes, they’re amazing!”

Chef: “Thank you! You come and get in two days.”

(Two days later, pancakes! When I go back for seconds, he asks how long I am staying and where I am from. I say I am leaving for my home in Sweden the day after, and I think that is that. This happens the next day when I am getting food from the buffet.)

Chef: *sees me and motions me over* “Good! You wait here.”

Me: “Okay?”

(I watch him cook up eggs for a couple in front of me, and then he takes out a bowl of batter from under the counter.)

Chef: “You need good last day! Long travel, yes? I make pancakes just for you.”

Me: “Oh, my God! Thank you so much!”

(My dad, who is queuing behind me for an omelette, speaks up:)

Dad: “That is very kind of you; those look delicious.”

Chef: *smiles at me, but then points at my dad* “Pancakes are only for her; you like eggs.”

(My dad and I both thought this was so sweet of him. I have Asperger’s, and food was a huge worry for me for this trip, since I have trouble with a lot of textures. This man made a good week into an amazing one. My dad went back about a year later, and I asked him to say hi and thank you to that man if he saw him cooking again. He did, and the chef said I reminded him of his granddaughter, and he was happy I remembered him.)

(I recently began work in the hotel side of a pretty renowned local restaurant with a Michelin star rating. I was worried that my coworkers would be stuffy or very serious, but instead they’re very down-to-earth. They’re very careful to be professional but friendly with guests, but we have a good laugh when everyone is checked out. Guests can be a bit of a mixed bag — as we all know! — so when we serve breakfasts in their suites, conversation is generally reserved to polite questions about dinner in the restaurant the night before. One morning this conversation transpires.)

Coworker: “So, how did you find your dinner last night?”

Guest: “Oh, quite wonderful. I’m still full! I don’t know how I’m going to manage after this breakfast!”

Coworker: *without thinking* “Not to worry; go for a jog around in the garden outside to work it all off!”

Guest: “This is a five-star establishment!“

(There is a moment of pause as we begin to run through all the ways this conversation could hurtle rapidly downhill. My coworker, thinking he is offended, makes to try and preemptively smooth over the situation.)

Guest: *laughing* “I would expect someone to go outside and do the running for me!”

A friend of mine lives in the US. One day, he mentions going to a popular fast food chain that doesn’t exist in Germany. As I’m a curious person and always eager to try new foods, this makes me want to try said chain. I already know it doesn’t exist in Germany, so I do a bit of research; there are only two stores of this chain in all of Europe, and I feel it’s not worth it to travel all the way for some fast food.

I’m sure a lot of people will call this story fake because what I do next is flat-out absurd, but I decide to write to this company. This, however, proves difficult. Their webpage has a contact form, but you need a receipt from one of their stores, and a valid US address and phone number to use it, neither of which I can provide. Frustrated, I do a bit of research, and after a while, I come across the mailing address of this fast food chain’s parent company. Thus, I take a pen and a sheet of paper and start writing:

“Dear Sir/Madam!

Ever since hearing about [Fast Food Chain]’s food from a friend who lives in the USA, I’m eager to try it myself. Unfortunately, there are no [Fast Food Chain] stores in Germany. Could you please open a store here, preferably in [City I live in] or [Next City]?

Sincerely,

[My Name]”

I then find an old postcard with a floral design in my desk, put it in the envelope with the letter, and add:

“PS: In case you’re not the person in charge of this decision, could you please forward this letter for me?

PPS: I added a postcard because unfortunately, if I sent you real flowers, they’d probably die before this letter arrives.”

I then send this letter, not really expecting a reply. A few months go by without a response, and I nearly forget about the whole thing.

Then, a package arrives. It contains a lot of [Fast Food Chain] merchandise — a shirt, a tote bag, a water bottle, some plastic fast food toys, etc — and a notebook with a reply to my letter on its first page.

“Dear [My Name],

Thank you so much for your letter! It totally made our day. The postcard is now sitting on our desk. Unfortunately, we don’t know if or when we can open a [Fast Food Chain] store in Germany, but we forwarded the letter for you. In the meantime, please enjoy these gifts from [Fast Food Chain].

Your friends at [Parent Company],

[Employee #1] and [Employee #2].”

There’s still no store from this chain in Germany, but I’m now saving up money to visit them some day and try [Fast Food Chain] together with my friend.

(I am serving tables during breakfast. While serving hot coffee to a customer, I accidentally spill some, and it lands on the bare skin of his young daughter’s foot.)

Me: “OH, MY GOD! I’m so, so sorry, miss!”

Daughter: *waves her hand* “Oh, don’t worry, hon. It must be God’s way of telling me that I shouldn’t be wearing uncovered shoes on Sunday!”