I’ve always considered myself a well-traveled Dutchman. Born and raised in Rotterdam, I’ve backpacked across Europe, and even spent a summer in Canada. But nothing could have prepared me for the most confusing cultural experience of the first time I entered the United States: tipping!
It all started the moment I landed in New York City. Tired from my flight, I hopped into a yellow cab, taking in the towering skyscrapers as the driver weaved through traffic like a man on a mission. When we arrived at my hotel, the meter read $42.50. I handed over $45 with a satisfied nod.
"Uh… seriously?" the driver said, raising an eyebrow.
I blinked. "Ja?"
He sighed dramatically and muttered something under his breath before speeding off. Why would I pay extra when the price is right there? I shrugged and went inside.
The Restaurant Dilemma
Later that evening, I found a cozy steakhouse and decided to treat myself to an "authentic American meal." A juicy ribeye and a cold beer later, the waitress, Lisa, handed me the bill—$58. I counted out $60 and left the restaurant feeling good about myself.
"Sir! Wait!" Lisa called out just as I reached the door.
I turned, confused. "Yes?"
"Was something wrong with the service?" she asked, looking genuinely concerned.
"No, no! The steak was great. You were great!"
She gave me an awkward smile. "Then… the tip?"
I frowned. "I already rounded up, right? That’s what we do in the Netherlands."
Lisa let out a small laugh, but not the amused kind. "Honey, in America, we tip at least 15-20%."
I quickly did the math. "So… you want me to pay you another ten dollars?"
"Well… yeah."
"But I already paid for the food! You work here, don’t they pay you?"
She sighed. "Not really."
I hesitated, but seeing her expectant look, I reluctantly handed over a $10 bill. Her smile returned, and she patted me on the shoulder. "You'll get used to it!"
I muttered, "I wouldn't count on it."
The Final Blow: The Coffee Shop Incident
Determined to understand the system, I spent the next few days over-tipping and under-tipping, getting glares, nods of approval, and everything in between. But the moment that truly broke me happened at a tiny coffee shop in San Francisco.
I ordered a simple black coffee, and as I tapped my card, the payment screen flashed an unexpected message:
"Would you like to tip?
15% - 18% - 20% - Custom"
I stared at the screen. Why am I tipping for pouring coffee? I sighed, picked the lowest option, and looked up to see the barista glaring at me.
"Really? 15%?"
That was it. I threw my hands up. "I do not understand your country!"
The barista smirked. "And yet, your coffee still tastes great."
I groaned. "Next time, I bring my own thermos."
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