(I work in web design and development for an international hotel company. My actual location of employment is at one of the company’s administrative offices located in the midwestern US. My work assignments are given out to me by the IT department at our east coast headquarters. I’ve never actually worked directly at a hotel. When I go on vacation, I usually stay at our own hotels, since I get nice discount. I take care not to advertise my “corporate-level” employee status; other customers tend to assume that I outrank the hotel’s general managers, or that I have the authority to resolve whatever complaints they might have about their room or their service. I don’t; it’s outside of my particular job description. My particular employer is very frequently — and very incorrectly — associated with the Mormon Church. It’s true we were founded by a Mormon family, and up until about three years ago we were still led by a Mormon CEO, but that’s the extent of our connection. We’ve never been owned directly by the Mormons, and we don’t get our marching orders from Salt Lake City. We are taking a family vacation to another state. On checking in, I have a brief conversation with the front desk clerk about where I work, and what my role in the company is — the normal check that’s required to make sure I actually do qualify for the discount they’re giving me. Unknown to me, that check-in conversation is overheard by a customer reading a newspaper, who noted my appearance and apparently makes plans to track me down later and give me some advice about the company, or the hotel specifically — whatever it is in particular that is concerning him. Later that night he finds me eating dinner in the hotel restaurant, and approaches my table.)

Customer: “Hi. Did I hear correctly earlier that you work for [Company] Headquarters?”

Me: “Yes.”

Customer: “I’ve got to let you know, sir, that I have a prob…”

(Then he notices my table, where I have a glass of beer right next to my plate. Mormons, I’m told, are not allowed to drink alcohol. This gentleman is a Mormon, and he is one of those who assumes I’m Mormon, too, since I work for HQ, and he thinks only “his people” would be allowed that high up in the company.)

Customer: *eyes go big* “Is that a beer you’re drinking? You’re violating the Words of Wisdom.”

(His voice continues to escalate in volume and anger level.)

Customer: “Your behavior is shameful! You’re a pox upon this company; you bring shame to the Prophet! What stake do you belong to? I’m going to make sure you lose your Temple Recommend, you… you…”

(He finally takes a breath and I clarify.)

Me: “Sir, I’m not a Mormon. I understand a lot of people believe we’re a Mormon company, but that’s not the case. I do work for our headquarters, but we have no religious requirement.”

Customer: “You liar!”

(The waitress comes up to try to intervene.)

Customer: *to the waitress* “You! Get the manager of this hotel! This man—” *shoving a finger into my chest* “—needs to be put into his place!”

(As it happens, the restaurant entrance is within line-of-sight to the front desk, and the General Manager had already been informed of an altercation in the restaurant. He walks in right next to us, introduces himself, and offers to take the conversation to a more private area. Judging by the GM’s darker complexion, accented English, and Arabic name on his nametag, he is apparently not Mormon, either.)

Customer: “You’re a Muslim! This is supposed to be a Mormon company! Mormon, you get it? You’ve all been taken over by the heathens! I’m never staying here again!”

(And with that, the angry Mormon stormed off to the elevator, presumably to pack up his stuff and go to another hotel that met his standards better.)

(On our website, if you sign up to our newsletter and marketing emails, you receive a code within 24 hours to have a free drink at our pub. I work in reception, so all emails to the hotel come through to me. I receive one such email.)

Customer: “I want my code. Give me my code.”

Me: “Dear sir: Thank you for your email. I am sorry, but I am unsure as to what code you need. Could you please specify? Kind regards, [My Name].”

(After sending this email, I realise it could be for the free drink.)

Customer: “My code for free drink! Can you not understand? Are you even English?”

Me: *simmering from rage at the racist remark* “Dear sir: I do apologise for the oversight. As it is, I am unable to send you a code, as it has to be sent by Marketing. It takes around 24 hours for the email to be sent to you after signing up. I hope this helps. Should you require any more assistance in the matter, please let me know and I would be more than happy to help.”

Customer: “But I want it for now! It said I will get one! Get me someone who can understand English.”

(I just stopped replying and deleted the emails. Never heard from him again.)

(I work in a hotel. People often come in off the street to get directions if they’re lost. Some people are obviously upset about having to ask, so they hardly pay attention. A guy comes in for directions.)

Man: “How do you get to [Store]?”

(He’s a little older, so I offer to print out directions so he’ll have something to look at on paper. He grumbles about that wasting his time and says to just tell him.)

Me: “Take a left out of our parking lot. It’s about a mile down the road, and it’ll be on the right-hand side. It’s just past [Fast Food Place]. If you hit [Entertainment Center], you’ve gone too far.”

Man: “So, go north, and it’ll be to the left? Okay.”

Me: “No, it’ll be on the right-hand side, between the street and the freeway.”

Man: “But you just said left.”

Me: “Go left to take you north out of our parking lot. Then, it’ll be to the right.”

Man: “So, go right.”

Me: “It’ll be to the right, after you’ve started going north towards the mall.”

Man: “God! All women are terrible at directions!”

Me: *tired, but talking with a smile* “Actually, I’m quite fantastic at directions. Most people know me for it. But if you would learn how to listen and stop getting yourself lost, then you wouldn’t be in this predicament, would you?”

(The guy looked at me like I had physically smacked him. Then, he mumbled something and stormed out.)

(I am working the front desk at a very nice hotel. It is a slow morning, but we are completely booked for the next few days. A diamond member — the highest rewards tier — calls in to request a room. We have no availability at all when this conversation takes place.)

Me: “Thank you for calling the award winning [Hotel]. How can I help you?”

Caller: “I’d like to book a room for tonight, for three days.”

Me: “Yes, sir, let me see what we have available!”

(I know we don’t have anything available, but we are supposed to pause and at least act like we are looking.)

Me: “I’m sorry, but it looks like we are all sold out tonight, tomorrow, and the next day. If you’d like, I can definitely put you on a wait list.”

Caller: “But I am a diamond member; don’t you have anything for diamond members?”

Me: “No, sir, we don’t have specific rooms for any level of the reward tier. Like I said, I can put you on a wait list and call you if anything becomes available.”

Caller: “But I’m a diamond member.”

Me: “I underst—”

Caller: “Can’t you cancel out someone’s reservation and make one for me?”

Me: “No, I am not going to cancel someone’s reservation that made it before you.”

Caller: “F*** you!”

(The caller hung up and I made myself a strong cup of tea.)

(I work at a hotel as a housekeeper; at this hotel I clean rooms and a couple of the main bathrooms. My manager asked me out on a date a month ago and I turned him down; since then, he has been on my case, trying to get me in trouble in whatever way possible. He slips in to inspect a bathroom after I have cleaned it. I have also used this bathroom and I am having that time of month. During my period, I have to use a pad AND a tampon. I put them into the feminine hygiene box, clean my hands, and take my paper towel with me back to my cart. He sees that the feminine box has stuff in it and that there is no trash. He assumes I didn’t change the bag out. He comes up to me while I’m also talking to a coworker.)

Manager: “You didn’t change the bag in the feminine box; you really need to do that. You haven’t been doing it lately!”

Me: “I have been changing the bags, and I also changed them today.”

Manager: “No, you didn’t! The hygiene box in the lobby was full of stuff!”

(I hesitate, but decide to admit to my sin of having a vagina that bleeds occasionally.)

Me: “Well, I am a woman, as you can see. Like most women, I bleed once a month. I changed the bag, but then had to change out my pad and tampon.”

Manager: *he goes red but then tries to redeem himself* “Why did you use the bathroom after you cleaned it?”

Me: “I had to use it after because my blood was starting to stain out.”

(He walks away like a dog with his tail between his legs.)

Coworker: *sarcastically* “Have you no shame?”

Me: “Nope, I also give zero f***s.”