Dealing with quantities of tourists has me baffled. I had roughly this conversation twice during my first month working in a grocery store.

Tourist: “Where on the island will I see the penguins?“

Me: “Do you mean puffins?“

Tourist: “No! There are penguins! I read about it on the Internet!“

I give them directions to the boat trip companies in a different village that’ll take them to the nesting cliffs. They won’t see penguins as it’s the wrong hemisphere, but they won’t be near me anymore.

Many years ago, my mum and dad had to have their dog put to sleep. After a month or so had passed, my dad was missing having a dog in the house and wanted to get a new one.

They didn’t want to get the same breed as they had before, so they were looking through a dog book to see what breed might suit them based on temperament, size, requirements, etc.

Dad got to the C section of the book, and after flicking through the Cs a bit, he said:

Dad: “What’s this, a ‘Chee Who Ah Who Ah’?”

Mum: *Looking up, confused* “A what? Let me see.”

She took the book from him and looked, and then she burst out laughing

Dad: “What? What’s funny?”

Mum: “That’s a Chihuahua, you idiot!”

My dad is a very intelligent man, but sometimes he can be just the teeniest bit dumb. We love him anyway!

Ballymena is a town in Northern Ireland known for its very strong accent. It can’t really be described in writing. Stress can be moved to odd syllables. Words get cut off before they are completed. It can be incomprehensible even to visitors from nearby towns.

This story comes from friends of my family. They were Christian missionaries in Western Africa for many years. During a visit back home, they brought friends they had made in Africa. A farmer who had supported their missionary work invited the whole party to Sunday lunch. He lived just outside Ballymena.

This was a religious household, so everyone sat down to eat and closed their eyes while the farmer prayed. In this gloriously strong local brogue, he blessed the food and thanked his wife for making it.

On the way home, their African visitors said this:

Visitors: “It was wonderful to hear the farmer pray in his native language! I thought you only had English!”

The missionaries then explained that it was, in fact, English — although, like the Africans, they sometimes did not realise it, either!

I am waiting outside a small-town bakery. The worker has just popped off to the toilet and has a “back in five minutes” sign up on the door. Another customer comes up to the door, reads the sign, and tuts loudly.

Customer: “Well, that’s annoying!”

Me: “He’ll only be a few minutes.”

Customer: “If the shop is open, it’s open! None of this ‘back in five minutes’ nonsense!”

Me: “He just popped off to the loo. He’s allowed a toilet break.”

Customer: “I’ll complain to the owner when I next see him.”

Me: “Well, the owner can’t do much about toilet breaks.”

Customer: “Well, he shouldn’t give his workers those!”

Me: “You mean basic human rights?”

Customer: “Yes! Those!”

I’m Spanish, but I work as a barista in a coffee shop in London, UK. A seventy-plus-year-old British guy is ordering.

Customer: “One cappuccino.”

Me: “Of course!”

Customer: “Do you know where the word ‘cappuccino’ comes from?”

Me: “It’s from the Italian words ‘small capuchin’, which is a type of—”

The customer immediately interrupts me, seemingly annoyed that I seem to know something he was very much looking forward to mansplaining to me.

Customer: “No, it means ‘hood’ in Spanish.”

Me: “That is not true.”

Customer: “No, it is. I’m a professor.”

Me: “And I have considerably more experience in being Spanish than you.”

Customer: “No, you’re wrong. Cappuccino comes from the Latin ‘capus’, which means hat.”

Literally none of that is true. Then, he just started repeating the word “cappuccino” at me at different speeds, in a fake Italian accent. 

Related:
Cappuccino-No-No, Part 11
Cappuccino-No-No, Part 10
Cappuccino-No-No, Part 9
Cappuccino-No-No, Part 8
Cappuccino-No-No, Part 7