I am working at the security gates of a small museum. A large group of senior tourists (roughly forty people) suddenly came in. We normally ask large groups to make a reservation, but since there’s barely anybody at the moment, we let them in. I remind everyone that they will need to empty their pockets of any metallic items before going through the scanner, like at the airport.

Only half of them listened to (or heard) me, so I have to individually repeat my instructions more than normal. They’re all painfully slow, not leaving any room for the next person while they gather their stuff, despite me requesting them to.

Some of them need to go through the scanner multiple times, triggering its alarm, before we find what was making it ring (most of the time, some forgotten object, but one or two of the visitors forgot their hip/knee replacement).

One guy in particular only takes out his phone before going through the scanner and triggers the alarm. He then takes out his wallet, goes through it, and triggers the alarm. Takes out a mint tin, goes through, triggers the alarm.

The process repeats two more times before he’s finally free to go. I did ask him, each time, to take everything out of his pockets, but he didn’t even acknowledge me. This same song and dance happened again with two more people!

Halfway through this whole ordeal, a lady harumphs at me: “Well, at this rate, we might as well eat dinner here!” I can’t go any faster, and there’s only one gate!

Meanwhile, my coworker at the locker room tries to gather their bags and coats as they leave security, but they insist on waiting for everyone before deciding if they want to use the (free) lockers. Once the forty of them have passed security, they agree on all using it, so my coworker gathers forty coats and forty bags while they rant about the slow service.

They then want to take our tiny elevator to the exhibition. The elevator won’t take more than three people at a time, so they have to wait again. One gentleman decides to take the stairs, cane in hand, and grumbles about us “making him walk the stairs”.

The only nice person in the group? The oldest member, who had started feeling faint from standing around so much and apologized to us for his friends’ attitude.

This story reminds me of an incident we had during a school trip

It’s common for Dutch schools to have a cultural trip abroad in the pre-exam year. It’s partly educational, but also a nice way to have a few fun days with the class.

During our trip, there was also a day of white-water rafting in the French Alps. Though white doesn’t do justice to the brilliant blue of that river due to its mineral content. The water flows quickly, but it’s safe enough to also jump in at many parts, and there are frequent small islands where you can stop and have a break. The rafting is organized by a local company.

This part of the trip is optional; if a student does not want to join, they are free not to, and we explain the risks clearly and have them sign a waiver.

Once on the water, what you’d expect to happen when you put over forty sixteen-to-seventeen-year-olds on rafts happens, and there is lots of trying to pull people from the rafts, splashing, and general fun, but it all seems okay. 

Until halfway through the experience, one of the instructors on the other raft flags down the one I am on and calls out to me.

Instructor: “Monsieur! Monsieur! Your student. He has broken his shoulder!”

I immediately panic and have flashes of helicopters having to fly in to lift the student from the river, as I’m being taken to them on the island, a raft has stopped. As I arrive, I run towards the student.

Me: “What happened?! Are you alright?”

He looks at me and says:

Student: “Oh yeah. No biggie. I just dislocated my shoulder. That has happened like five times already this year. I’m going to the hospital to have that surgically corrected during the summer. I’ll just need a sling and some aspirin.”

Me: “What possessed you to go wild water rafting if that’s the case?”

Student: “Well, it seemed like fun!”

Once we got back safely and he was in his sling, I, of course, had to contact his parents, who were obviously a tad upset that he’d gone rafting against, as it turned out, his doctor’s advice, but basically chalked it up as an important lesson for him to listen to doctors next time.

It is late in the morning at the public finance centre reception desk. This is where citizens pay fines for minor crimes. I’m checking my receipts while the coworker to my right is with the last client.

This client is angry, and I’m listening in case I need to intervene or go get the manager if it’s directed at my coworker.

I see that he’s holding up a criminal conviction statement.

Client: “…What’s more, it’s because of the mayor of my village! He was blocking the road with his tractor, so I got out, and yes, we got angry, but he lied in court!”

Coworker: “Okay…”

Client: “He says I slapped him, but that’s not true! I just… deliberately opened my car door on his head.”

Since we’re not supposed to be judgmental, we don’t say anything to his face. He pays his fine. It’s within the thirty-day deadline, so my coworker gives him the 20% legal discount.

After the client leaves:

Me: “Um, am I wrong, or is what he did worse?”

Coworker: “Yes, it’s worse! A slap is violence without temporary incapacity to work. Well, there’s an aggravating circumstance here because it was against an elected official. But the door can really hurt, and you could have been convicted with much worse in this case!”

Me: “He was lucky that the mayor only said it was a slap!”

Back in the early 2000s, I worked on the Eurostar trains, running from London to Paris. I worked the first-class area, so I would bring pre-booked meals to customers in their seats.

I approach a woman travelling with her young child, likely no older than five.

Passenger: “Excuse me, when do we go under the sea?”

Me: “We’re in the tunnel now, ma’am. We should already be under the English Channel.”

Passenger: “Okay, but when are we out of the tunnel?”

Me: “We should be out on the French side in—”

Passenger: “—No, not in France. Under the sea?”

I’m confused for a second, but then the child asks a question that explains my confusion:

Child: “Mummy, when do we see the fish?”

Me: “Ma’am… do you think the train goes through the water?”

Passenger: “Yes! It goes under the sea! That’s what I was told!”

Both mother and child are looking up at me expectantly. I decide to answer in a way that will save me time, and them some dignity.

Me: “Uh… It’s nighttime, so it’s too dark to see anything, I’m afraid.”

Passenger: “Really? Oh, bother.” *To her child.* “Sorry, love. It’s too dark to see the fish. But on the day we come home, we’re taking the afternoon train, so we should see something on the way back!”

Am I kicking the problem down the line? Sure? Will I be working that afternoon train? I will not. I apologise to whoever ended up with my problem!

I work in a restaurant on the French Riviera, so we get a lot of tourists. A group of English-speaking diners has been given our menu, which is French for the first half and English for the second. 

One of the diners gets to the seafood section:

Customer: “Oh, gee! This menu’s got poison on it!”