(We’re Canadian and live in British Columbia. When my dad retires, my parents buy a cottage in Clallam Bay, Washington, about a six-hour drive south from our home. We often go down for long weekend trips. My husband and I are walking back to the cottage from the beach. A van full of people keeps passing us; it is obvious they are lost. Finally, they pull up next to us and ask for help.)

Lost Driver: “Can you help us find the Anderson place?”

Me: “No, sorry, we don’t live here; we are just visiting. I don’t know who the Andersons are. Do you have the address? I do know some of the road names.”

Lost Driver: “What? I can’t understand anything you said.”

Husband: *slowly and louder because we think the guy is hard of hearing* “We don’t know the Andersons. I have my phone if you want to call them for directions.”

Lost Driver: “Your accent is ridiculous; I don’t understand a thing. Where are y’all from?”

Me: “British Columbia, about a six-hour drive north.”

Lost Driver: “You’re British? Your accent isn’t British. I can’t understand you at all.”

Me: “Not British, British Columbian. We’re Canadian.”

Passenger: “Oh! I love the Canadian accents; they sound so educated.”

Me: “Didn’t realize we had accents. We’re not that far over the border.”

Passenger: “Your accent is great! You say things like a-boot and gar-adge.”

Husband: “About and garage?”

Passenger: “You’re not saying them right… Are you not Canadian?”

Husband: “I am, but I think that accent is more from the east coast, like Newfoundland. Like, people from Rhode Island sound different from people in Seattle.”

Lost Driver: “What? So you’re from Rhode Island? Makes sense. I can’t understand a word they’re sayin’.”

(Finally, we just tell them there’s a gas station two roads over that probably knows where the Andersons are.)

Lost Driver: *as he rolls away* “All these foreigners, taking our jobs and houses… Don’t understand a word they say….”

(We are visiting my dad’s mother on a vacation. My little sister and I go with my dad. It was only a couple years ago that she came out to us as MTF and started her beautiful transition. Now, mind you, my grandmother used to favor her when we were young when she was a boy. This is because she is quite sexist and believes that a woman’s job is to stay home, cook and clean, and look pretty. But her views have changed for the worse. I am now 22, and she is 19.)

Grandma: *confiding in me* “You know, I don’t know what to get [Sister] anymore for gifts.”

Me: “Well, I dunno. Maybe [Sister] would like gift cards to her stores, or some makeup?”

Grandma: “No! No! He isn’t a [gay slur]! He’s going to be the man of the house and it is going to stay that way!”

Me: “Well, I don’t know. But clearly, she’s been sitting on this part of herself for a while. Just get her some lipstick.” *already getting aggravated*

Grandma: “No! She needs a toolbox! A girlfriend, even! Who is going to take over the family when your father is gone?!”

Me: “Well, there’s me, [Younger Sister], [Older Sister], so it shouldn’t be too hard.”

Grandma: “Are you kidding?! Ladies like you and [Older Sister] are not meant to deal with finances like a house. You’ll be finding husbands soon, anyway; maybe one of them can take over the family.”

Me: “What? Are you f****** kidding me?”

Grandma: “Ah! Don’t use that language with me! None of this would be a problem if [Sister] didn’t decide to be a [trans slur]!”

(As if on cue, my sister and my dad come into the room, hearing the tirade his mother is spewing again. Poor [Sister] looks pale and mortified from the comment.)

Dad: *firmly* “Mom, don’t use that kind of language, please. [Sister] is right here and I don’t like her dealing with that.”

Grandma: “Don’t you butt into our conversation! It’s none of your business!”

Dad: “Well, it is my business if it has anything to do with any of my beautiful daughters. I think you need to go cool off.”

(She’s known for being quite crazy when she gets mad like this, so the next steps are very necessary when she doesn’t comply.)

Dad: “Okay, so, we are going to pack up early and leave.”

Me: “Okay? Did she finally stop running her mouth?”

Dad: “No, and that’s why we’re leaving. I’m not subjecting [Sister] to this for an entire week. We can go hang out with [Other Family we know around here].”

(After that, we left and didn’t have to deal with her again for the rest of the trip!)

(Not long after having my first baby, I am visiting with my cousin, who has two children of his own. My husband and I ask about local motels in the area to stay overnight in, and my cousin invites us to stay with his family. We are unloading so much luggage out of the car.)

Me: “I’m sorry there’s so much; we had to bring a lot more than normal because of [Baby].”

Cousin: *laughing* “You don’t need to apologise to me; I’m a parent, too.” *more serious* “I was an absolute a**hole to my friends when they had babies; I kept telling them that they shouldn’t let the babies run their lives. I would let them have it whenever they told me they couldn’t go out with me or go partying because the baby was sick or too tired. After we had [First Daughter], I went around to each of them and apologised for being such a d**k to them.”

(When I’m eight, my family takes a vacation to the Jersey Shore. We rent a four-bedroom vacation home because there are quite a few people coming: my grandparents, my parents, me, my brother, [Uncle #1], and [Aunt #1], who is pregnant at the time. It’s a little cramped when it comes to bathrooms, but everyone at least has a bed. On the day we arrive, [Aunt #2] calls and asks if she and [Uncle #2] can also come. They’re having problems with their marriage and think a vacation might help. My grandma tells her yes and informs me and my brother that we’ll have to sleep on the couch. Still, it shouldn’t be too crowded. Then [Aunt #2] and [Uncle #2] arrive, but not alone. They also bring along their three children AND one friend per child. This doubles the number of people. Added to this, it starts raining incessantly, meaning we’re all stuck in the house together. In all, it’s sixteen people, four beds, two toilets, and one shower. [Aunt #2] and [Uncle #2] argue constantly, the whole time. Each of their kids finds out that they don’t really like the friend they brought and start fighting with them, as well. At one point, [Cousin #2] tries to pull a mean prank on her friend, but it goes horribly wrong. It ends up with me having some nasty burns on my hands. My grandma is also picking fights with pretty much everyone just because she lives for drama. So, this nightmare vacation has the cranky grandma, the feuding couple, two thirteen-year-old girls in an extended cat fight, an eight-year-old with burnt hands who needs help eating and using the toilet, four boys who are constantly screaming and punching each other, a pregnant woman who needs the bathroom a lot and always finds it occupied, and five other people just trying to survive. We’re there for a week, and it rains the whole time. In the aftermath of the whole debacle, [Aunt #2] and [Uncle #2] get divorced, and there are several family feuds spawned that last for years. Some of them remain unresolved to this day. Now, nearly twenty years later, my mom calls me.)

Mom: “[Cousin #1] is getting married!”

Me: “Oh, that’s great! When’s the wedding?”

Mom: “It’s in four months, and they’re having a beach wedding in New Jersey.”

Me: *remembering last time* “Oh. That’s… nice.”

Mom: “So, your grandma is renting a beach house, and we’ll be staying there with [everyone who was there last time, except [Uncle #2], plus [Aunt #1] and [Uncle #1]’s kids, [Cousin #2]’s husband, and [Cousin #3]’s wife]. Should I tell her you’ll be staying with us?”

(Pause.)

Me: “HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! Hahaha! Ha! No.”

Mom: “What? I’m sure it won’t be like before.”

Me: “Really? So, how many bedrooms are there?”

Mom: *pause* “Four.”

Me: “And bathrooms?”

Mom: “Two.”

Me: “And isn’t [Cousin #2] pregnant?”

Mom: “Yes.”

Me: “And [Cousin #3] is having marital problems?”

Mom: “Yes.”

Me: “Sounds like a sequel to last time: Jersey Shore Nightmare Vacation: The Next Generation. Tell them I’ll pass.”

(The wedding hasn’t happened yet, so I’m waiting to see how it all goes. My brother has also declined the invitation in a similar manner, but everyone else has apparently forgotten how awful it was.)

(I am on vacation in Santorini, Greece with a few friends, exploring the town. There is a vendor selling noise-makers and other cute children’s toys on a mat in the square outside a church. An American woman is with her small child, who is playing with the toys, and the following exchange occurs.)

Customer: “I guess we’ll take one of these bouncy balls. How much?”

Vendor: “Three.”

Customer: *hands the man an American $10 bill* “Here you go.”

Vendor: “I can’t take this.”

Customer: “Why not? You said it was three dollars.”

Vendor: “No, euros.”

Customer: “What?! Why didn’t you say so? I don’t have any euros. Just take this. You can even keep the change.”

Vendor: “This is not America; I don’t take American money.”

Customer: “Okay, here’s a card.”

Vendor: “No, euros only.”

(This goes on for a bit, the woman getting angrier. The vendor eventually shakes his head in a final “no,” and she storms off towards us.)

Customer: “Could you believe him?! I can’t believe he wouldn’t take my money.”

Me: “Well, we are… you know… in Greece…”