I am a waiter in a restaurant in a town in Spain that gets a few tourists. Our restaurant is in a small alleyway (medieval town = lots of thin alleyways!) with al-fresco dining running its length.

I am checking on one of our outdoor tables when one of the diners flags me down. She is American. I am usually assigned the tourists since I am half British and my English is fluent.

Customer: “You need to do something about that disgusting display!”

Me: “What display, ma’am?”

Customer: “That woman has her breasts out for all to see!”

She points to one of our outdoor diners at the end of an alley, talking to her group of friends quietly and casually. She is also breastfeeding her child.

Me: “Ah, I see. I understand that’s not a common sight in the US, but here, it’s quite normal to—”

Customer: “I don’t care! I have my teenage boys with me and it’s offensive to expose them to… to that!“

Now that she mentions it, her two sons (I’m guessing around fourteen to fifteen) do seem to be enjoying the view.

Me: “I’m sorry, ma’am. It’s not prohibited to breastfeed outside in our establishment.”

Customer: “I’ve never been so offended!”

I try to deflect her outrage.

Me: “Have you and your family been to the beach yet?”

Customer: “No, we just got here! Why is that relevant?”

Me: “I’m just thinking that if a woman breastfeeding is enough for you to worry about your sons, then you might be in for a surprise when you hit the Spanish beaches. Topless women are the norm there.”

Customer: “What?! What kind of ungodly country is this?!”

Me: “One that’s 90% Catholic, ma’am. Would you like to see the dessert menu?”

I didn’t mean to be so sassy, but it did at least make her think!

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I am a bouncer at a bar in Spain. We live in a touristy town, and I am fluent in English, so I am usually the first to be called up if we have issues with visitors trying to enter who might be underage.

There are a couple of girls who definitely look closer to sixteen than eighteen. They are speaking English with American accents, so I am dealing with them.

Me: “Can I see your IDs?”

Teenager #1: “I have a tattoo! You can’t get a tattoo if you’re under eighteen!”

Me: “In Spain, you can get a tattoo at fourteen with parental consent. This tells me nothing.”

Teenager #1: “Well, we left our IDs at home.”

Me: “Best go fetch them, then.”

Teenager #1: “Ugh, I thought Europe was supposed to be cool!”

I then notice something else.

Me: “Actually, maybe don’t bother coming back.”

Teenager #1: “What… why?”

Me: “I have a feeling your IDs might be as fake as your tattoos.”

The girls look down on their ugly tattoos that have started peeling around the edges. They squeal a little and leave the queue.

Teenager #2: “I told you that wouldn’t work!”

I was in Ibiza, twelve days into a two-week break. I am a swarthy Englishman and my holiday had given me quite a decent tan. I usually get spoken to by indigenous people; however, like most Brits, I don’t speak any Spanish much beyond “Please,” “Thank you,” and “Four beers, please.”

One day, I was on the beach and two (old) Brits approached me and gestured toward the rentable pedal boats.

Man: “How much are the pedalos?”

This caused great amusement amongst my friends.

Me: *In English* “Sorry, I can’t speak English.”

He responded by asking several more times in an increasingly louder and more aggressive voice. He eventually asked:

Man: “Why be a vendor in a tourist area if you don’t speak f****** English?!”

Me: *In English* “Why are you being rude and not attempting to speak the local language?”

He eventually stomped off, muttering to his wife, not realising I spoke to him in English THE WHOLE TIME!

Twenty years on, my friends still sidle up to me and ask, “How much are the pedalos?”

My dad organizes Christian camps every year during the summer, usually a family one and a youth one, each a week long. We usually stay in between these camps because we’re the family of the director.

We just finished the family camp a few days ago and we’re starting the youth one today, so young people between twelve and twenty-five are arriving. I spot a girl I know, [Girl #1], going with her mother, [Mother #1], down to where the girls sleep. I follow to say hi and show her around a bit, being the welcoming girl I am. The mother is chatting with a different mother, [Mother #2], about her daughter, [Girl #2], and such.

Note: there are only top bunk beds left; the bottoms have already all been taken as the girls arrived.

Me: *To [Girl #1]* “Hey, it’s so nice to see you!”

Mother #1: “Hey, do you know whose bed this is?”

She points to mine as I sit on it.

Me: “Yeah, it’s mine. Why?”

Mother #1: “Oh, because I don’t want [Girl #1] to sleep on a top bunk; I think she might fall off during the night.”

Me: “Well, there’s really no reason to worry about that. I’m sure [Girl #1] will be fine.”

Mother #2: “Yes, I’m sure [My Name] and the other girls will take care of her! Look, I think [Friend] is on this bed next to [My Name], and [Girl #2] is on top of [Friend]’s bed. [Girl #1] can sleep above [My Name,] and she’ll be fine.”

Me: “Yeah, that’s an excellent idea! She’ll be fine. We can put a chair or something so she can get up easier.”

The top beds are a bit tough to get up on; I only know how because of years of experience.

Mother #1: “Yeah, but I’m still worried. Can you change with her? Just put your stuff on the bed above yours so she can have yours?”

Me: *Taken aback* “Um, no, I’ve been sleeping in this bed for a week already, from family camp. I’d rather not change. Your daughter will be fine.”

Mother #1: *Looks at [Girl #1]* “Well, okay, if you’re sure. And [My Name] can probably help you make your bed, right?”

What am I, a servant?! I nod noncommittally, and [Mother #1] keeps talking. 

Mother #1: “Where can I unpack her clothes and all?”

Me: *Inwardly groaning* “Well, [Friend], who’s also been here for a week, has already got all her things on that shelf over there, and there aren’t any more shelves. Everyone just puts their suitcase under their bed and pulls it out when necessary. Trust me, we won’t be down here long enough during the day to be bored.”

Mother #1: “Well, [Friend] could still move her things! Why does she have everything everywhere?!”

She starts moving things around to make space.

Me: “Hey, please don’t touch her things! She’s got that all done and all.”

She stops touching things but continues grumbling about how [Friend] should make some space for other people. [Mother #1] looks for space to put the suitcase (it ends up next to the shelf all week). I say hi to [Mother #2] and chat a bit.

Eventually, [Mother #1] takes out sheets and starts making her daughter’s bed. I think it’s all under control, so I head back upstairs. [Girl #1] ends up making a lot of trouble for my mom during the camp.

Since it’s a Christian camp, we have to dress decently; spaghetti straps aren’t allowed, pants must be knee-length or longer, and you have to wear one-piece swimsuits. Phones stay in our rooms.

[Girl #3] hurts herself halfway through camp, twisting her ankle, and [Girl #1] goes up to my mom.

Girl #1: “Can I go get [Girl #3]’s phone? She’s in the living room and can’t move her foot. We want to watch a movie.”

Mom: “No, the phones have to stay in the rooms. If she can’t go down to use it, she can’t use it.”

My mom also had to tell [Girl #1] several times during the day to change her shorts, change her shirt, put something on, and so on. She once came up to the kitchen in front of some boys in her pajamas! That’s a big no-no here. My mom got tired of telling her all the time, but she said that if she did it again, she was going to have a good talk with her parents about telling her what to wear or maybe even what to pack.

[Mother #1] eventually invited herself over for the next camp to help in the kitchen — I told her we had more than enough help — because she didn’t want to leave her kids alone. Mom said she wouldn’t let [Mother #1] come anyway!

The camp was amazing, and we all had a great time. When [Mother #1] came to pick up her kids, she basically cross-examined me on whether her daughter had been happy through camp. I think so?

The summer before my last year of college, I sign up with a temp agency to make some extra pocket money. I make it very clear that I’m still in college and I’m only interested in working during holidays or weekends. I’m not desperate for money and I’m not putting my education in jeopardy over temp work for minimum wage.

Three weeks before the start of the academic year, I’m sent to work in a warehouse. What’s meant to only last a couple of days ends up becoming open-ended — not permanent as I’m still working through the temp agency — but when my contact at the agency calls me to let me know, I remind her that I’m only available until [last Friday before term starts].

The place is dysfunctional.

Example #1: Despite being a warehouse for a major Spanish clothes brand, there’s zero security. No one checks our bags (which we just pile up wherever we like or carry with us) and there are no cameras. Personally, I find this brand’s clothes ugly, especially those for men, and I seriously wonder whether that’s their deterrent.

Example #2: Zero security extends to control over who comes in or leaves. A guy disappears halfway through a shift and reappears a day or two later.

Manager: “Hey, did you leave early the other day?” 

Employee: “Oh, I had a doctor’s appointment.”

Manager: “Okay. Let me know next time.”

Example #3: Another guy disappears halfway through a shift. A couple of days later, I hear the manager say:

Manager: “Hey, didn’t we hire one more guy?”

I just show up every day on time and go about my duties at a reasonable pace, which means I’m soon detected as the “responsible temp” and I’m “promoted” regularly. After a couple of days, they start asking me to do slightly more complex stuff than moving boxes around. By the end of my second week, I’m doing admin rather than manual work.

On my last day, I say goodbye to the people I’ve worked most closely with and disappear into the night to enjoy my last weekend before classes restart.

The following Monday, while I’m on campus, I look at my phone and I have missed calls from the temp agency and a text from my dad, saying the agency called home. This is all like thirty minutes after my shift would have started if I’d continued working there.

I call the agency.

Agency Rep: “Why are you not at work?”

Me: “I told you I would only be available until [last Friday].”

Agency Rep: “But since you were doing so well, we thought you’d stay! They really liked you!”

Sure, like I’m going to choose a minimum-wage temp job that could be terminated at any time with zero notice over completing my final year of university education.

The thing that surprised me the most is that I’d seen guys just vanish from the warehouse and no one seemed to notice until a day or two later, whereas within half an hour of me not showing up, they’d even called my dad. If I was such an essential worker after only three weeks, maybe they could have tried negotiating with me and offering to work around my schedule rather than expecting me to just keep showing up. It probably wouldn’t have worked — I soon found part-time work in my field — but at least I could have stayed another week or two while they found a replacement.