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 am waiting for a parcel to be delivered at home. From the notification I received, the courier should be at my place between 3 PM and 5 PM, and for my own peace of mind, I am home since 2 PM.

The clock strikes three, and I get an email “your parcel has been delivered”, but I have seen no courier at my door. Thinking that maybe the courier has marked the delivery as completed while on the way, I wait. And I wait. And I wait. 

5 PM arrives, and I have seen no courier or my parcel. I check outside, just in case it has been dropped outside without ringing the doorbell, but there is nothing in sight. I even check in the bin of the recycled paper, as it once happened that a parcel was dropped there, and it just contains folded cardboard boxes to be disposed of.

I get inside and notify the shipping company that I haven’t received the parcel. 

Two days later, a courier from the company rings my doorbell and, as soon as I open the door, in a rather brusque tone and without letting me talk, tells me:

Courier: “You reported me for a missed delivery, but I have delivered your parcel!”

Me: “Really? Where?”

He smugly goes to my paper bin, opens it, and looks inside, seeing what I saw: just paper and cardboard to be disposed of. Without missing a beat, he goes on a rant:

Courier: “Listen, I deliver thousands of parcels every day, and I can’t remember every single one. But I delivered your parcel!”

Me: “If that’s true, where is my parcel?”

He goes into his van, screaming:

Courier: “I delivered your parcel!”

Shaking my head, I relay the entire story to the delivery company and the shop that sent the parcel, who both tell me they will investigate further.

After three days, I get a notification that my parcel has been left at the neighbor’s living three houses down the road. Apparently, giving me that information in person was too much.

We rent out houses and sent out letters for necessary maintenance. The maintenance is required by law and has to be done inside the house. So, the tenant is required by law to allow the maintenance to happen. It’s not something immensely big, but it’s required, and it’s planned in a couple of months. If the people can’t be home, they can change the date. Our letter explains the law and (in my opinion) is not threatening at all.

We received an email:

Client: “I read your letter. Just this once I will allow it, but if it’s a [n-word] or searcher of luck they can f*** right off.”

A searcher of luck is someone who moves to another country because they want to make more money/get rich, not because of war or despair. It’s also often used for refugees or other immigrants who legally stay in the Netherlands. To be short: it’s a racist insult.

While the ‘I will allow it’ already ticks me off, the racist insults force me to first grab something to drink and calm down.

My response:

Me: “Sir, our technicians are selected based on skill and certifications. According to our constitution, discrimination on the grounds of skin color is forbidden. If you refuse our technician on these grounds, our company will take steps against you. We do not tolerate this behaviour. Please treat our people as you want to be treated.”

His response:

Client: “I’d like to see you try. Good luck and kisses!”

By law, we are not allowed to kick him out on the grounds of these racist remarks. But don’t you worry. This was not his first… indiscretion. The file is getting bigger and bigger. Keep on digging that hole, client, keep on digging.

My significant other and I knew these other two couples for quite some time. One day, we decided, for a change, to dine outside instead of meeting at someone’s place.

We opt for a Mexican restaurant, place our orders, and enjoy the dinner and the conversation. Toward the end of my meal (something with beans), instead of their soft texture, I feel something hard under my teeth: I pull it out, and it’s a little pebble the size of a pea.

I call the waitress, who has been serving us, and inform her of what happened. She apologizes, asks me if I am okay, and goes to the kitchen to inform the cook.

She comes back a few minutes later, apologizing again and explaining that they recently changed supplier for their beans, and that was probably the cause of the mishap. As an apology, they will remake my dish.

Since it was the last spoonful, I told her not to worry and that I just wanted to be sure it didn’t happen again to someone less lucky than me. She then offered to at least comp our drinks.

I was about to answer with a polite “well, if you really insist” when one the women at the table with us started a long tirade on how I could have damaged my teeth with that little stone, that it was unacceptable for a restaurant to suffer those kind of incidents, and that we should get our entire dinner comped to make up for it.

We all, her significant other included, were embarrassed and looking at our plates while she went off at the poor waitress, who was explaining that they acknowledged the problem and they are already comping the drinks and asking if the other dishes had any other problem.

After what felt like an eternity, I stepped in, cut the whining short, and told the waitress I was happy with accepting the comped drinks. The woman tried to keep arguing while we were paying, and even when we left, saying it was dumb for me to let go so easily of the chance to get a free dinner.

I told her that if we are in such a bad need for a free dinner, then maybe we should not dine out next time.

She went quiet after that.

I need to get something from the shop, but I’m running late. As I walk up, I see an employee come out to close the door.

Me: “Aw, I’m too late.”

Employee: “Yes, I’m sorry, but we’re closing.”

His manager calls out from inside.

Manager: “[Employee], be a star and help him out.”

I’m conflicted. On the one hand, I do need the item that I came out for. On the other hand, I’ve read enough NAR stories. The pained look of the employee at his manager’s comment does it, though. I make eye contact with the manager.

Me: “No. You’re closed.”