I am the bad customer in this story. My wife, a friend, and I were visiting the August 10th market (Mercado) in Cuenca Ecuador. Someone suggested that we try the yucca tortillas (which are more like what an American would call a pancake), made with yucca, cheese, and egg.

I ordered them with my extremely limited Spanish and then went to sit down while the server reheated them. This area of the Mercado was laid out like a food court, with stalls along the outside and tables along the inside.

The tortillas were very tasty. We finished them up, bused our dishes (which apparently is unusual), and wandered on down to see what else we could try.

About thirty seconds later, I felt somebody grabbing the sleeve of my jacket. I turned to see that it was our server, saying something to me in extremely rapid Spanish. I pretty much only caught “tortilla” and said that yes, we had the tortillas. Another torrent of Spanish ensued, and a customer sitting nearby said:

Customer: “You no pay.”

Fortunately, there were two Spanish phrases that I had learned specifically for situations like this.

Me: “Oh, lo siento. Yo soy idiota.” *Oh, I am sorry. I am an idiot.*

The grand total was less than three dollars, so I gave him three dollars and tried to tell him to keep the change, which just confused him. He chased after us again to give me my change.

I am doing a charity gig producing caricatures. A lady walks up, looks at my art, mumbles something, and then asks me:

Lady: “Do you do private commissions?”

Me: “Yes, I do.” 

Lady: “What do you need?”

Me: “All I need is a photo and some information about the person you want to be caricatured.”

Lady: “I have a photo of my husband in the car. I can go and get it if you like.”

Me: “That would be great.”

She heads off, and twenty minutes later, she comes back with a photo.

The photo is of a large lake with a tiny boat in the middle. And I mean tiny; you can barely make it out. After a while, I say:

Me: “So, where is your husband?”

Lady: “He’s in the boat.”

I look again. And there, measuring approximately 2.5 pixels in width and 3.7 in height, is — I presume — her husband. Fishing.

Me: “I think I’m going to need a slightly clearer photo.”

She takes it back and looks at it.

Lady: “Actually, you’ll probably want one of him facing you, too. He’s got his back to you in this one.”

I nodded slowly and she walked off.

I sing with a small band, and we were asked to perform some Christmas songs at the local Christmas market. All was going well until I started on “Let it Snow!”. My accidental spoonerism in the second verse caused some raised eyebrows and sniggers from the audience.

Me: “Man, it doesn’t show signs of stopping, and I brought me some porn for copping…”

Every time I sang the song afterward, I had to concentrate really hard on that section not to repeat the mistake.

I have set up a stall at the Christmas Market within the Spedale degli Innocenti’s courtyard, ready to sell my rust-print cloths, which are both unique and fairly expensive. While I’m busy showing off a tablecloth to a customer, I hear my partner shout.

Partner: “No! Go away! Bad dog!”

I turn around and see him waving his “anti-theft staff” around menacingly, placing himself between the napkins pile and a yapping Maltese dog lunging toward them. The dog’s owner is busy having a call.

Me: “Hey there. Can you please rein in the dog before he smacks my things down?”

The owner gasps as she snatches her dog up and holds it away from our sight.

Woman: “How dare you?! She just wanted to say hello!”

Partner: “It was trying to say ‘hello’ by ripping all these cloths to shreds. I had to react.”

Woman: “Well, it’s not like they’re worth much, anyway.” *Points at a napkin* “How much is this worth? I bet I could buy this all with pocket change.”

Me: “The napkins? 40€ each, and the tablecloths are worth 200€. Do you know why? I make these personally with rust powder and ash. They’re unique. They are not puppy pads.”

The woman blushed and ran away without much incident. Still, loose and untrained dogs shouldn’t be allowed out!

The seafood market I work at has this case that protrudes out into the store’s main walkway to allow us to put more product in there. I guess they just don’t make that curved glass for that kind of design, so our glass ends at roughly eye level for most customers.

As a result, we get a**holes poking their d*** hands over the top of the glass to show us exactly which piece they want, coming within inches of touching the fish. The worst was when a lady had a bunch of used hand wipes balled up in her fist, and as she pointed at what piece of salmon she wanted, one fell out of her grasp and rolled down about ten pounds of salmon.

The people I just cannot understand are the ones that have to struggle to get their arms over the top. It’s like… maybe there’s a reason it’s hard to get over?