(My husband and I are on holiday. We’re considered an uncommon interracial couple. We’re both South African, but I’m ethnically Pakistani and he’s a Zulu man. We’re on holiday in Dubai and we’re at a theme park known for its fast rides. It’s a bit of a busy day so we’re waiting in line. There have been a lot of queue jumpers today and we’re getting fed up. Just behind us are two Indian girls. As the line moves, we notice the girls are slowly inching closer and closer into our personal space, to the point where they’re actually moving around us and trying to get ahead in the queue. This pisses me off since I hate line jumpers, but I’m a bit of a pushover so I don’t confront them. I just give them a dirty look. Soon, the girls start speaking in Hindi, not realising that I’m Pakistani and fluent in Urdu — our language — which is very similar to Hindi.)

Girl #1: “What are they doing?”

Girl #2: “I don’t know. Look at that girl looking at us.”

Girl #1: “She looks crazy. Is she with the black guy?”

Girl #2: “Looks like it. Weird.”

(They say a few more sentences which I don’t catch because my glare is getting more intense, and I finally decide to speak up. I speak to them in Urdu.)

Me: “Hey, you girls are being incredibly rude. We’re all waiting in this line and I don’t know what you think of yourselves that you can cut past us.”

(Both girls look shocked and start to make excuses.)

Girl #2: “We’re not trying to cut in line, but fine, you go ahead of us.”

(The line moved forward a few steps and they got a little behind us. Coincidentally, the theme park that we were at employs a lot of South Africans and we’d been greeting our fellow countrymen the whole day, whenever we heard the accents. As we neared the front of the queue, the girls were starting their old tricks again and they’d managed to move a little ahead of us. One of the men running the ride turned out to be Zulu and my husband spoke to him in Zulu quite enthusiastically. The man asked how things were going and my husband replied that things were pretty good, except for the queue jumpers. The girls’ faces blanched and they started to look scared, even though neither of them could understand Zulu — the words “queue jumpers” were said in English. My husband isn’t the type to be petty, but being South African had been a huge advantage to us since the staff were usually nicer and more accommodating for us. Anyway, when they needed two people to fill the next ride, those girls were purposefully ignored by the attendant and we went in first. Even though it was something small, karma felt good.)

(I am at the reception desk of our hotel when an older man comes and says:)

Guest: “I want to check out early and need two nights refunded.”

Me: “Sure. Can I have your name, and room number?”

Guest: “Oh, no, I am not staying here, but in another hotel in your company.”

Me: “In this case, you need to do the checkout there and claim the refund.”

Guest: “Yes, but I don’t want to go back there; it is on the other side of town.”

Me: “I understand, but I am afraid I cannot help you.”

Guest: “Why not? The other hotel belongs to your company, as well.”

(I spent an extra thirty minutes trying to explain until he finally gave up.)

(A business guest who has stayed with us for around a week comes to check out. Even though he was here for business and his company had booked his room for him, he brought his wife, which is not a problem for us, but the company explicitly said they will only pay for one person. So, we split the bill into his stay and his food and beverage consumption and a separate bill for his wife’s consumptions, which he will have to pay himself.)

Guest: “All the food is split up.”

Me: “Yes, your company will only pay for your food, but you will have to pay for your wife.”

Guest: “Yes, but can’t you just wrote ‘Dinner’ and the full amount without specifying how many people ate?”

Me: “No, this is an automatically generated bill. When you go to the restaurant, they type in what you order and that’s how it appears on the final bill.”

Guest: “Can you not… change it? I can say it was very expensive, but that it was only me eating here.”

Me: “I’m afraid we can’t do that, sir.”

Guest: “Well, why not?”

Me: “Because modifying a bill is fraud and if your company finds out they will not do any business with us again.”

Guest: *grumbles and pays*

(Seriously though, your wife stays with you for free and you only pay for her food? Isn’t that enough?)

I get hired as an assistant in the photo department for an online clothing retailer, but I show up the first day only to be told by my boss that he believes my skill set would be more useful in a customer care position and to come in the next day with my personal laptop. I’m a little taken-aback by this, but after ensuring he is aware I can’t do a desk job where I’d have to sit in front of a screen all day due to chronic back issues, and being assured that isn’t the nature of the job, I comply — considering the pay for the second position was better — and come in the next day with my personal laptop.

That’s when I’m told my new job title is a Customer Behavior Analyst, and what that entails is, in fact, sitting in front of a screen all day, building massive brand-specific spreadsheets and reports that cover all purchases of that brand in a super complex matter. Of course, I’m expected to do so on my personal laptop, which would require me to download quite a few new programs, as well as a massive amount of data, onto a device that wasn’t meant for such large bulks of data-processing.

When I voice my concerns and bring up my back issues, I’m yet again assured it will be fine, that I can take breaks to stretch my back whenever needed, and that I can work on my own pace, as none of those reports are of an urgent nature and are only really needed once every two months when reordering is to take place.

I’m never officially trained on how to operate their system; I’m only told which fields to include in my spreadsheets and reports. Because of this, I end up having to redo the first spreadsheet three times, and have to do so manually for each order as the system they used was absolutely ancient. To give you an idea of how insane that is, the first brand I am tasked with doing has over fifty products on our site, each available in at least five colors, each color of course has anywhere between five and fifteen sizes, and the brand has at least a thousand orders. Because of the way their system works and the constant changes my boss suddenly decides he wants added or removed, it takes me two days to finish the first report. I tough through it, and thankfully manage to figure out how to do most things on my own as nobody saw it fit to teach me.

On my third day in the position, I am tasked with a brand that had about three times the amount of products and subproducts, and am told the report is needed first thing the next morning, which would be absolutely impossible to achieve. The boss won’t hear any “excuses” when I tell him that, and demands it be in his inbox first thing in the morning. This results in me staying in the office from eight am to eight pm, with no lunch break or back-stretching breaks, and continuing to work at home until about midnight.

I end up quitting after one week, as working in a position I am not qualified for, with a device not meant for the job, paired with absolutely insane deadlines just isn’t worth it. My work days ended up being over sixteen hours long on a good day, which obviously strained my back and caused pain so terrible I could hardly keep down two meals that entire week. The quitting process was an absolute nightmare, and involved getting yelled at by my boss — actually yelled at like a child — for nearly two hours, being told I was incompetent and immature, that I had absolutely no future, and that if I wanted an “easy” job, I could do well as a stripper.

Oh, and did I mention the boss was my step-dad?

(It’s the holidays, and because I am unable to go back home to Italy and celebrate with my family, I decide to put together a package with gifts for all of them and send it early, so they would have it by Christmas. At the post office, I am filling out the form with their address and mine and bring everything to the clerk.)

Clerk: *after looking over the forms* “So, your address seems to be fine, however, the shipping address does not… There is no PO box here.”

(Note that in the UAE everyone uses PO boxes, as they usually don’t have street names and numbers.)

Me: “No, it’s correct; we don’t use PO boxes. While we don’t have street names, you see…”

Clerk: “Well, are you sure this is the correct address?”

Me: “I lived there for over 20 years. I can assure you, this is the address.”

Clerk: “I will not take any responsibility if the package doesn’t arrive.”

Me: “It will arrive. I take the responsibility. Plus, I live in a very very small town with only one post officer. He knows everyone personally, which means even if the street name is wrong, he will still be able to deliver it because he knows my parents.”

Clerk: “All right, but as I said, I am not sure this will arrive, as there is no PO box, and I will put a note that says I informed you about it.”

Me: *sigh* “Put that note and just send it, please.”

(The package arrived just fine and my family received their presents and were very happy about it.)