My husband and I jokingly say that we encounter people from the town we grew up in everywhere we go. We now live twenty kilometers from that town. For instance, we met my father on a stretch of road fifty meters long on the other side of the country when we both didn’t know we would be there. We also encountered my parents-in-law when we were out cycling one day on a road close to us, where my parents-in-law had never been before, and they had no idea we would be there.

When we go to an island for our holiday, the first person we meet is our former neighbour from [Town]. A few days later, we are out walking in the dunes, on a path where clearly not many people go. From a distance, I spot a brightly coloured stone. It’s been painted and it’s a Happy Stone (which can be taken away and left somewhere else). I go and grab it. It’s beautiful and I’m really happy with it. I turn it over and read, “Happy Stones [Town].”

I can’t help but laugh out loud about it.

Me: “[Husband], remember how we always say we find people from [Town] everywhere?”

Husband: “Yes?”

Me: “Look!”

He found it just as funny as I did.

The big Victorian-era seaside town I grew up in draws tourists from the UK and abroad. There was a massive building on the seafront that was a bit of an eyesore. It had little independently owned shops at the very bottom that were accessible from the promenade and an arcade — not a games arcade but a penny machine arcade which was essentially gambling for kids — on the town level.

When I was fourteen, the whole building burnt down when one of the independent store owners attempted an insurance scam.

The company asked for our opinion as to whether or not they should rebuild it for everyone over the age of twelve, and the answer was overwhelmingly no. I also put no. They ignored us and built a really ugly glass and metal modern building that didn’t suit the Victorian town.

Two years later, I’m working in a tourist attraction that’s in the village next to the town. It’s the summer and it’s just gone from glorious sunshine to a rainstorm — normal for England in summer. This usually means people from the town end up in the building, as it’s got a very large tearoom, so we get busy.

I’m working in the tourist information desk when a very grumpy man comes in and pretty much charges up to the desk, yelling at me in a strong American accent.

Tourist: “How long is this rain gonna last for?!”

Me: *Taken aback by the yelling* “Er, could be five minutes, could be five days?”

Tourist: “Five days?! Is it that bad?! Does it always rain in England?”

Some random Scottish older lady who is checking out the leaflets chimes in.

Scottish Lady: “Yup, but not as much as Scotland.”

The tourist stares at her, realising he’s not going to get anywhere complaining about the weather. He stays stood there and seems to clock I’m at the information desk. He leans down toward me all conspiracy-theory-like, ready for his next complaint.

Tourist: “You know, there’s a gambling place for kids.”

Me: *Thrown by the change* “I’m sorry?”

Tourist: “Gambling. For kids!“

Me: “The penny arcade?”

Tourist: “It’s gambling.“

Me: “It’s got a cap of £5 per day, and you have to get your change from an actual person so they can monitor it.”

Tourist: “Still gambling.“

Me: *Pauses* “Okay.”

He looks expectantly at me.

Me: “What about it?”

Tourist: “What are you gonna do about it?”

Me: “Excuse me?”

Tourist: “What are you gonna do about it?! You just gonna let them kids gamble?!”

Me: “Sir, I’m sixteen. I can’t really do a lot about it. And they wouldn’t care anyway; the locals told the company we didn’t want them to rebuild it when it burnt down but they rebuilt it anyway.”

Tourist: “Protest to your government!”

Me: “We tried that.”

Tourist: “Get an American to help you; you lot are too reserved! And this place is too wet!“

The man strode off to the tearooms, muttering to himself. The random Scottish lady that was now intently staring at the leaflets burst into giggles as soon as he was out of earshot.

My father is British, my mother German, and I’ve been living in sunny Spain ever since I was just a lad.

Ten years ago, I was working at the reception desk of a large resort-type hotel where most guests were from both of my parents’ countries of origin.

One of the few rules this hotel had was that any towels placed on sunbeds before 9:00 am were taken away by security to be collected by their owners in a specific bar on the premises.

Now, I have to stress that it’s not only a German habit to reserve sunbeds; the British are very much into it, as well.

One day, we had quite a lot of people at reception, mostly Germans, when this particular lady cut the line and started to throw a temper tantrum (in German) because her precious towels had been taken off her desired sunbeds early in the morning. She ended her tirade with the following words:

Woman: “We have a right to reserve sunbeds. Us Germans are paying for Spain’s debts.”

She then stormed off, leaving a lot of stunned and embarrassed fellow countrymen behind. Some of them shouted abuse at her, like, “You’re insane, aren’t you?” or “Go back under your rock.”

But the icing on the cake was an elderly gentleman who walked up to reception some ten minutes later.

Gentleman: “My wife was present when that woman insulted you, and I want to apologize in the name of my country for what she said. I’m so ashamed. Please don’t think that all of us Germans are like her.”

That man really made our day.

This happened when my parents went on their honeymoon in Spain. Back then, there were ID checks each time you transferred from one nation to another, and the one at the France-Spain border in particular had a queue going on for miles.

My father, who was driving, moved to the emergency lane, went past a line of 100+ cars, and merged back into the queue just before the Border Police shack.

Out of the shack came a French gendarme with the red and green traffic baton. He singled out my parents’ car and directed them to move onto the median strip. Once they were there, he put the baton under his armpit and walked back inside the shack while the other motorists jeered and cheered.

It was more than an hour before my parents were allowed to join the queue again.

I’m a Brit on a bus in France with my Bulgarian friend and my French friend. We’re going to a French convention and the French friend has kindly offered us her abode. Going by accent, there’s a very loud American couple making derogatory comments about the passengers and generally about France in English, clearly thinking we can’t understand them.

My Bulgarian speaks loudly to my French friend in English.

Bulgarian Friend: “I think it’s very interesting that my school in Bulgaria had me learn English. Do they do the same in France?”

My French friend replies just as loudly, also in English.

French Friend: “Oh, yes. In fact, in Paris, you’ll be hard-pressed to find someone who doesn’t understand English at least a little. Hey, [My Name], what about you?”

Me: “Being from England, it means it’s pretty much all I can speak. Although I can tell you where I live in French if you want?”

French Friend: “Please don’t butcher my beautiful language.”

Random German Man: “We also learnt English in Germany!”

Random American Lady At The Back: “I’m from Louisiana! So we have English and… a different French.”

The couple was strangely quiet for the rest of the journey.