I have an American accent, but I speak French fluently. My accent, however, seems to make certain people think I am incredibly stupid. The spoken language in this story is French unless otherwise stated.

Customer: “I’d like two [item]s, please.”

Me: “No problem, but just so you know, if you buy a third, it will only cost an extra 5€. Would you like to buy a third?“

Customer: “What?“

Me: “[Item]s are 12.90€ each or three for 30€.“

Customer: *Blank stare*

Me: “…So, if you buy a third, you save 8€.“

Customer: “I don’t understand.“

Me: “You’re buying two, which will cost 25.80€, but if you buy three, it will cost 30€ instead of 38.70€.“

Customer: *In heavily accented English* “Repeat after me.“

I wait for him to continue, but he just stares. I assume he is trying to ask me to repeat myself.

Me: “Would you like two for 25.80€ or three for 30€?“

The customer continues to stare blankly at me for what feels like an eternity and then looks at my coworker. She has been next to us the entire time but purposely ignores customers like this because she can’t stand when people treat me differently.

Customer: “I’ll just take one.“

Coworker: “That wins the stupidest conversation of the day.”

I’m in a supermarket, making my selection amongst a variety of pastries, when a fellow shopper approaches me, asking for help.

Fellow Shopper: “Hi. Do you happen to know where the four-packs of [product] are?”

Me: “No, I’m sorry. I only ever buy them one at a time.“

I look around a little with her, but we don’t find what she’s looking for. I go back to my selection while she continues searching and muttering to herself. Some of the muttering is somewhat addressed to me, so I smile and make vague positive noises in response.

Fellow Shopper: “Hey! I found them!”

Me: “Oh, good for you!”

I smile and nod before returning to my shopping.

Fellow Shopper: “Look, they were just here!”

Me: “Uh-huh.“

I’m progressively getting farther and farther from her, looking at the products on the shelves, while she’s still rejoicing over her four-pack. At some point, I squarely turn my back to her — not quite on purpose, just because that’s where my shopping took me — and stop responding to her.

That’s when she changes tactics and starts that passive-aggressive move of muttering to herself in a tone loud enough to be clearly heard by the object of her ire.

Fellow Shopper: “Huh! So rude! I’m just trying to help her! She could at least have said ‘thanks’!”

That was the point when I completely stopped worrying about offending her and just walked away because you can’t argue with crazy.

Lady, I didn’t come to you; you came to me. I didn’t need your product, I told you so before searching, and I still didn’t take it after you had found it. But sure, I’m the one who should thank you for the privilege of trying to help you.

My husband and I are on a walking holiday in the middle of nowhere in France, picked because it’s literally the cheapest break we could come up with during a time of extreme stress. Every penny counts to us at this time.

One day, it becomes clear that we’ve walked much too far and simply don’t have the energy to walk all the back to the town we’re staying in.

Then, we spot a tiny rural railway station… but we don’t have tickets. There’s no machine. There is, however, someone on duty in the railway station.

I don’t speak French. My husband learned it in school in England in the 1960s but has never used it since. We have a discount card, and the journey would ideally involve a switch to a tram in the town, which you can buy as an add-on to the ticket price for a big discount.

He thinks it’s worth trying.

In slow, imperfect, schoolboy French, he explains this to the booking clerk.

The booking clerk slowly and carefully runs through the options in French: the prices, where to change trains, how to validate the tickets on both the train and the tram, and all we need to know.

In the end, my husband is really proud of himself for how much he was able to make himself understood and how much he was able to understand. He takes the tickets and hesitatingly says:

Husband: “Merci monsieur pour… your… aide. Je suis désolé pour… my… français. Merci de le… uh, support?”

The clerk responds, in English with a clear West Midlands accent:

Clerk: “It was very good, and I thought you’d like the practice. I’m from Coventry.”

I think I fell in love with the guy, just a bit.

(For non-Brits, Coventry is a city in the West Midlands of England.)

Thirty years ago, I was working in a pretty well-known American bookstore in Paris. A customer comes in one day looking for a specific book. So far, nothing out of the ordinary.

Me: “What’s the name of the book?”

Customer: “I can’t remember.”

Me: “What’s it about?”

Customer: “I just remember the colour of the cover: white and red. It talks about politics, but for the life of me, I cannot remember the name of the author!”

We found the book.

It was “Primary Colors”… by Anonymous.

I receive a call from a customer. I manage an adult toy store, so I will leave it to your imagination what he’s calling about. I pride myself in helping people find what’s right for them, so this call goes on longer than I should have tolerated.

Customer: “Hi. I bought an item from you yesterday and it’s just horrible; it doesn’t work at all.”

Me: “I’m sorry to hear that. We have a guarantee on our electronics as these things do happen sometimes, so bring it on in with the receipt and I can exchange it for you.”

Customer: “No, no, it’s not electronic.”

Me: “Oh. What item is it, and how is it defective?”

Customer: “It’s an [item], and it is just absolutely horrible quality. It serves no purpose. It’s just absolute garbage. I want to return it.”

Me: “I’m sorry to hear that, but if it’s not defective, I can’t exchange it for you.”

Customer: “Of course, it’s defective! It doesn’t work at all! I spent 40€ on this for nothing. I’m a customer; you have to do something for me.”

Me: “I’m trying to help you, but you need to describe what’s wrong as it doesn’t sound defective to me. Is it too tight or too loose?”

Customer: “It’s not too loose; it’s just horrible. You need to exchange it for me.”

Me: “There’s a difference between something being defective and something not pleasing you. I can’t return something just because you don’t like it.”

Customer: “It’s more than it not pleasing me. There’s something wrong with it. There’s no way anyone can use this.”

Me: “I’ve been selling this item for a while now; plus, everything we order has reliable reviews online. The item presents as described on the box. I can’t get a refund from the manufacturer because it’s not defective.”

Customer: “So, if I cut the tip off and come in saying it’s defective, I can exchange it is what you’re saying.”

Me: “Absolutely not!” 

Customer: “So, what can you do for me? You owe me; I’m the customer here. You need to take a loss and let me have something else. Something better quality. This thing just slips off when I try to use it; this is—”

Me: “Ah, so it is a matter of size, as I suggested. If you’re not big enough, I suggest you go to your doctor about that. I think we’re done here. Have a good day.”