(I work as a hostess for the restaurant of a hotel which is five minutes away from the Eiffel Tower. As such, our terrace has a gorgeous view, and you can see the feet of the Tower from our tables inside. This makes my job a little difficult as every visitor wants to have “the best view,” and I have to accommodate them. As I’m part Indonesian, I speak it fluently, but rarely see any Indonesian tourists. It is in the middle of winter, and we have no heating on our terrace. A family of three enters the restaurant.)

Me: “Hello! How may I help you?”

(The youngest daughter, who I suppose is the only one who can speak English, replies:)

Customer: “Hi. We would like to have dinner outside.”

Me: “I’m really sorry, but our terrace is closed because of winter.”

Customer: “Well, open it for us.”

Me: “Sorry, but I have no waiters available to serve you outside, and we have no heating; I do have tables available inside, though.”

Customer: “We don’t mind the cold; just bring us the food outside and we’ll eat outside.”

Me: “Sorry, but I’m just following my manager’s orders, and we’re not going to leave you to eat in the cold! I can find you a nice table with a view inside if you want!”

(The customer turns to her parents.)

Customer: “Dia bego deh, katanya ngga boleh duduk diluar, pasti dia aja yang ngga mau kerja.” *She’s an idiot, she’s saying we’re not allowed to sit outside, but I’m sure she just doesn’t want to work.*

Me: “Ada meja didalam kak, bisa keliatan juga Eiffel Towernya.” *I do have tables inside where you can see the Eiffel Tower.*

(The mum started smiling and asked me where I was from in Indonesia, and the daughter turned white as a sheet and dragged her parents out of the restaurant. I just burst out laughing. This story always makes me laugh when I think about the years I worked in that hotel. Another question I have been asked while working there included, “Can we walk from here to the Eiffel Tower?” while literally staring at it.)

(This takes place four years ago, when I’ve just started dating my boyfriend. I always take a long time to fall asleep, so I’m used to lying in bed next to someone who’s already asleep. My boyfriend and I have been long-distance for about a month and this is his first night at my place. He has been sleeping for about 20 minutes when he rolls towards me and gets up on his elbow.)

Boyfriend: “You know, I don’t want anything serious.”

(That is a big deal, as I thought we both wanted a committed relationship. I have a personal “no one-night-stand” rule.)

Me: “Um… What the f***? What do you mean?”

Boyfriend: *lying back down* “It’s complicated…”

(Something seems off. He has been nothing but very nice and open to conversation up until now, and this answer is out of place. I get up, go to my living room, and try to control my temper, as I’m very explosive. When I come back, I ask him:)

Me: “What was that about?”

Boyfriend: “What?”

Me: “What do you mean what? You know perfectly well what I’m referring to!”

Boyfriend: “Do you know where my leeks are?” *pause* “Oh, that’s embarrassing…”

(And that’s how I found out my boyfriend talks in his sleep. I quickly calmed down and asked him about it in the morning. Of course, he didn’t remember and hadn’t meant a word of it. We live together now, and at least twice a week we chat about random stuff like the price of trout on Mars. It’s very unsettling because his voice isn’t sleepy when he does it and he actually answers me when I talk back, but now I find it funny!)

(I’m a writer, currently promoting my first novel. One afternoon, I’m signing copies of the book in a DVD, record, and bookstore. The employees really did a great job; I’m sitting at a nice desk in the middle of the book section, with a large poster of my book cover AND my own picture right next to me, a kind of nameplate on the desk with my name and two dozen of copies of the book in front of me, and the whole corner surrounded by CRIME SCENE yellow tape. The bookstore reception desk is about two yards on my left, in plain sight of everybody who enters the store. I am wearing a purple fedora, so I’m certainly not dressed like a store employee. A middle-aged customer walks towards me, with his young son in tow. He begins speaking without smiling, and without saying, “Hello,” or, “Please.”)

Customer: “I want to buy a self-installation kit for [Internet service provider].”

Me: *a little taken aback by his rudeness* “Hi… I’m sorry, sir, but I’m not working here. Maybe you should ask—“

Customer: *cutting me off, in a huff* “What are you here for, then?”

Me: *staring at him, dumbfounded* “I’m here for a signing session.”

(I show him the poster and the books. He remains silent, glaring at me for about ten seconds, and walks away… without asking anything to the employees who are a few feet from him! But he says, while turning his back at me.)

Customer: *still disgruntled* “No harm done.”

(Sure. No harm done. But I truly don’t know what I did wrong there and why he felt obliged to be angry at me for his own simple mistake. Maybe he can’t read and was angry to admit it in front of his kid? Anyway, he’s now on my top list of stupid customers, tied with a lady who asked me, on a signing session in a megastore, where she could find the eggs, and was pissed at me when I said I didn’t know. I’m still regretting not having answered: inside a hen’s butt.)

(A crowdfunding website which allows you to organize communal funds has a bug. Anyone can change the description of all the communal funds on the website. Obviously, some Internet users take the opportunity to replace communal funds descriptions with sexist, racist, homophobic, and/or transphobic descriptions. Since no one answers on their Twitter, I call customer service.)

Me: “Hello. I wanted to know if you were aware that your site has a bug.”

Customer Service: “No, what bug?”

Me: “Anyone can change the description of all the communal funds.”

Customer Service: “Are you sure?”

Me: “Yes.”

Customer Service: “You are sure you do not have permission to modify the description of this communal fund?”

Me: “You need an account with a password to modify normally, right?”

Customer Service: “Yes.”

Me: “So, yes, I’m sure I don’t have the nickname and the password of all the members of this website…”

(My husband and I are visiting an ear-nose-throat doctor for the first time because we’re having allergy problems after moving to a new area. For convenience’s sake, we’ve scheduled ourselves back-to-back and we go in together. I have kept my own last name. It is now the end of our appointments.)

Doctor: “[Last Name]… What nationality is that?”

Me: “It’s Ukrainian.”

Doctor: “Oh, man, you Ukrainians are having a rough time, huh?”

Me: “Oh, yeah, I suppose. But really I’m American.”

Doctor: “So full of strife for so long!”

Me: “Um, yeah, well, we’ve been in America for a very long time — at least three generations, probably longer. I’m really not sure.”

Doctor: “You poor Ukrainians. Tell you what; I’ll only charge you for one appointment today.”

(It was super awkward but hey, free money.)