I work in a library that’s four hundred miles from the Alaska/Canada border. I am checking out books for a patron who hasn’t racked up enough overdue fines to prevent him from checking out materials, but he still wanted to pay his $1.00 in overdue fines. 

He hands me four quarters, but one was Canadian, and we were strictly forbidden from accepting any foreign currency because it’s a huge pain in the butt for the overdues clerk.

Me: *Giving back the Canadian quarter.* “Sorry, sir, we can’t accept foreign currency.”

Patron: *Flipping out.* “What?! That’s legal tender!”

Me: “Yes, in Canada.”

Patron: “Every real Alaskan knows Canadian money is just as good as American money!”

Me: “Not in this library, sir.”

Patron: “Is this your policy or the library’s?”

The patron kept going on and on and pushing for more detailed explanations as to why he couldn’t give us a Canadian quarter in the USA.

One of my coworkers walking by got dragged into it, and he traded the guy an American quarter for the Canadian one. Canadian Quarter Guy haughtily handed me the American quarter, which I accepted and cleared the fine. But he wasn’t done.

Patron: “I want to speak to your boss.”

Me: “She already went home.”

Patron: “The Dean of the library, then.”

Me: “You’re welcome to go up to the third floor to check and see if the Dean is still around.”

He did go up, but came back defeated, but only temporarily as he saw me again and had more words:

Patron: “I should call the IRS and the police on you for not accepting his legal tender! It’s illegal!”

I literally just walked away from him mid-rant, which made him stop and finally leave.

Coworker: “Did he finally leave?”

Me: “Yeah, just now.”

Coworker: “Did you see what book he was checking out? The Entitled Generation.”

Me: “Maybe he’s reading it ironically?”

Coworker: “He would have to have self-awareness to see the irony.”

Shortly after I moved to the Netherlands, I decided to practice my Dutch by joining a volunteer organization. In my neighbourhood, there was a library which had switched from being managed by the municipality to being a volunteer-supported structure, sort of a book crossing spot: anyone could pick or drop a book, no need to bring it back, and so on. We were there just to explain to patrons how it worked and to put books back on the shelves.

Even though my Dutch was still kind of broken, most of the patrons would praise my attempt at practicing and improving it. Until she came in. 

She comes in on a Saturday afternoon, when I am normally the only one manning the place. She goes to a book rack and starts shuffling among the books, looking for something. I approach her and, in Dutch, offer my help. She starts speaking fast and almost not opening her lips, resulting in me not getting a single word of what she is saying.

To my “sorry?” she repeats again the same string of muttered and unintelligible sounds, to which I say, this time in English:

Me: “I am sorry, but my Dutch is not so good. Can you say that in English?”

She goes full banshee mode, shouting in English:

Patron: “You should not be here if you don’t speak Dutch! You’re wasting my time!”

Unnoticed by me, [Senior Volunteer] had just entered the place, just in time to hear my conversation with her. He goes to her, holds her arm, and, while guiding her to the exit, he tells her, in Dutch, which I can understand:

Senior Volunteer: “You are totally right, but unfortunately [OP] is the only one who volunteers here on Saturday, so if he cannot be here because his Dutch is not up to your expectations, it means that this place is closed as of now until the next volunteer is available on Monday. Goodbye.”

And in saying so pushes her out of the glass door, locking it behind her.

While she is staring at us behind the glass, processing what just happened, [Senior Volunteer] looks at me and says:

Senior Volunteer: “You did nothing wrong, and complaining about your Dutch is very rich coming from someone who only speaks [Local Dialect]. I couldn’t understand either what she was muttering! We are volunteers here; we don’t have to put up with such people. You can have the rest of the afternoon free and keep this place closed.”

I’m working behind the children’s desk when I spy a lost-looking adult. It frequently happens that people new to this location walk right past the check-out desk by the front door and then end up asking for help at the children’s desk.

Me: “Hi! Can I help you with anything today?”

Patron: “Um, yes, it’s my first time here.”

Me: “Welcome!”

Patron: “Thanks, I was looking for books about dogs.”

Me: “Okay, books on dogs for kids?”

Patron: “No, for humans.”

We both stop for a second, and she laughs first, then we both laugh.

Patron: “I mean, for adults, please.”

Me: “As someone who works with tiny humans, I understand where you’re coming from! Those books will be upstairs in 636.7.”

Our public library branch adjoins a small square. The square is designated as a shared space, meaning that traffic can use it as a thoroughfare, but the speed limit is 10 km/h, pedestrians have right of way, and they cannot stop there at all for any reason. There are multiple road signs conveying all these.

Customer: *Pointing at shared space.* “Can I park there?”

Me: “No. And if the parking wardens see your car there, they will ticket it.”

Customer: “But there are no “No Parking” signs anywhere.”

Me: *Points at the sign.* “That’s your sign right there.”

Customer: “But that’s a “No Stopping” sign.”

Me: “And what is one of the things you do when you park your car?”

I have been collecting a specific book series that originally came out in the 1930s since I was a kid, not in the 1930s. My local library’s used bookstore has a warehouse where they keep all their books, and on Saturdays, you can go and have a gander while the volunteers sort the books.

On the off chance, I ask if they have any of the series I collect, and they do! Mostly modern versions and stuff I already have. They do have one thing I’m interested in. In the 1990s, they made reprints of the books with the original dust cover illustrations. They are not perfectly like the originals. The board colors are different, the spine has the 90s publisher name, and the inside explains that it is a special reprint edition. I don’t have this particular edition of this book, so I brought it up to purchase it.

It is important to note that to some people, I look very young, and they will treat me as such.

Warehouse Volunteer: “Oh. I’m not sure I can sell you this.”

Me: “Why not?”

Warehouse Volunteer: *In a tone like she’s talking to a child.* “Well, sweetie, this book is very, very old. We need to research it first to know what it is worth before we sell it.”

Me: “This version is only about thirty-four years old. It isn’t an original.”

Warehouse Volunteer: “No, honey. Like I said, these books are very, very old.”

Me: “Actually, this is a [Edition] reprint. Probably from 1991 or so.”

Warehouse Volunteer: *With the same patronizing tone.* “Honey, you may think you know, but we really need to research it before we can sell it to just anyone.”

I pick the book up, point to the publisher’s name on the spine, then open it to the publishing info and show her the date, then show her the page that explains it is a reprint.

Warehouse Volunteer: “Oh. Uh. I guess you’re right! It’s from the 90s.”

She sells it to me for five dollars, which is a fair price, and I turn to leave.

Me: “And by the way, I’m as old as this book.”

The lady started to try to make excuses, but I just politely said goodbye and left.