I’m visiting the Independence Palace (Old US Embassy) in Ho Chi Min (Saigon). A visitor is at the ticketing desk a few places ahead of me, speaking in loud, aggravated English.

Visitor: “What do you mean I can’t use my dollars! This is the original American Embassy!”

Ticket Clerk: “I’m sorry, sir, we can only accept Vietnamese đồng.”

Visitor: “I was able to use it at the hotel! I should be able to use it here! Why can’t I use my dollars?!”

I’m about to say something to him when the guy in line immediately ahead of me, also sounding American, says:

Other Visitor: “Because they kicked our a**es. Their country, their rules.”

The angry visitor is suddenly aware he has a whole line of people staring at him, and says as he leaves:

Visitor: “I didn’t want to go in anyway!”

I work at a boat rental in the warmer months (paddle boats, kayaks, and canoes) and we require an ID for many reasons, one being that the minimum age to rent a boat is fourteen. 

Last year, some girls around that age came up to us without any ID because barely any teenager under sixteen in Germany has an ID anyway. They didn’t even have a student ID because schools stopped making those.

Girl: “Wait! I have an E-scooter!”

Me: “Okay… and you have ID in the scooter?”

Girl: “No, but they only give those to you if you’re fourteen and up!”

Me: “I’ve seen nine-year-olds on those things. They don’t prove anything!”

Girl: “It proves if I can ride a scooter, I can ride a canoe!”

Me: “If you injure yourself on the scooter, you hurt yourself. If you injure yourself on our canoe, you hurt me, as I will be fired. Nice try, but no.”

Girl: “Well… I hope you get fired anyway you… you… dictator!”

All the girls stormed off, calling me various incarnations of an authoritarian despot, which hits harder in Germany!

My best friend at university is from the USA. He’s studying in England, but over Christmas, his family is visiting. Since I’m a Londoner, I decided to play tour guide for a day and plan a quick run-through of all the tourist spots.

At one point, we’re walking past a major central street to head to where the horse guards are. In doing so, we pass Downing Street.

Friend’s Dad: “Why is that road locked up?”

Me: “That’s Downing Street. That’s where our Prime Minister works and lives. Think of it like the White House.”

Friend’s Dad: “Huh.”

Me: “That’s why there are police outside with guns. It’s one of the very few times you’ll see guns in the UK out on the street like that.”

Friend’s Dad: “Oh. Do you all have to conceal your weapons here?”

Friend: “Dad, no, I told you. They don’t have guns here.”

Friend’s Dad: “No guns?”

Me: “Well, we have gun clubs for enthusiasts. My grandad is a member and took me shooting on a big range once, but the guns are never allowed to leave the club.”

Friend’s Dad: “No… guns? But, how do you defend yourself?”

Me: “From what?”

Friend’s Dad: “From other guns!”

Friend: “Dad! We’ve been over this! That’s not really a thing here. There’s knife crime, but—”

Friend’s Dad: “—Well, there you have it! How do you bring a gun to a knife fight?”

Friend: “You… don’t? Guns aren’t part of the culture here.”

Me: “Yeah… guns make me nervous, anyway.”

Friend’s Dad: “No wonder these Brits lost against us.”

Friend: “Dad, they’re just not used to seeing guns.”

Friend’s Dad: “Imagine being so not used to seeing guns that the sight of one makes you nervous!”

Me: “I know! Isn’t it wonderful! Anyway, we’re coming to the horse guard’s area, so…”

I go straight into my explanation of the next tourist spot, leaving my friend’s dad flummoxed as to how his apparent burn got turned into a compliment. Overall, he was a friendly guy and enjoyed the trip, but good LORD did that man like his guns.

I’m giving the usual safety speech for my group on the White-Water Rapids Tour.

Me: “Alright, everyone, expect a lot of turbulence. Keep your feet inside the raft, listen to commands, and—”

A hand shoots up from the back.

Tourist: “Will we get wet?”

There’s a ripple of laughter. I chuckle too, assuming he’s joking.

Me: “Uh… yes. Very.”

Tourist: “No, seriously. I need to know if I’ll get wet.”

The laughter dies, and I realize he’s dead serious.

Me: “Sir… this is white water rafting. The raft will hit waves. Water will splash. That’s… the entire thing.”

Tourist: “Okay, but which seat gets the least wet? I’ll take that one.”

Me: “…None of them.”

Tourist: “What do you mean none? There has to be one. Like the middle seat on a log flume.”

Me: “This isn’t Disneyland. There’s no ‘dry seat.’ This is a river. It does what it wants.”

Tourist: “This is absolutely not what I was sold. The brochure didn’t say anything about getting soaked!”

Me: “The brochure is literally titled ‘Conquer the Rapids.'”

He stomps off to complain to my manager. After the tour heads out, I find the manager by the gear shed and vent. The manager sighs.

Manager: “A few more years here, and you’ll realize how sadly common that is. My first year I had someone ask what we did with all the rocks after ‘the ride.'”

Me: “…What?”

Manager: “I told him we let all the air out and pack them up every evening.”

I’m in the lobby of a hotel in Kraków, Poland. I overhear two women walk up to one of the concierges and start complaining.

Guest #1: “Why did you recommend we go to Auschwitz?!”

Guest #2: “That place was depressing as h***!”

Concierge: “Ladies, you asked what the most visited places were, and I did explain the history of the memorial site.”

Guest #1: “Well, we did not have fun there.”

Concierge: “Neither did my grandparents.”

You could have heard a pin drop…