Let’s talk about tipping. I hate it.
Tipping is saying to the other person: “You are not my equal.” I don’t grudge the money, but I loathe the principle. Pay people properly for their work!
Anyway, how do you think I got on when I went to New York, the world capital of tipping, last week? Well, mostly OK, to be honest.
At least the tipping process was upfront and impersonal. I’d get the bill, present my card and be shown a screen which asked me to select my tipping level: 15%, 20% or 25%. The trouble with that is, pressing 15% was an insult – to judge my server the lowest of the low? And, if I went higher, wouldn’t that be buying into a system that, frankly, sent the meal into a territory that made the evening out exorbitant? It was draining.
Still, at least it was clear. I flew to the Big Apple knowing that they have a tipping culture and was quite content with that.
But let me tell you about one tip that has stayed with me.
It was day two of my solo trip. Hell-bent on discovering the entire city in a week, all on my own, I’d started out the day before by buying a tour bus ticket, in order to get to grips with the lie of the land.
After that, it would be me, on foot, in my new, sturdy trainers. So, on the first day, I’d sat on three different open-top buses, in blazing sun, eyes like saucers, looking upwards and taking pictures.
The second day, burnt to a crisp, I walked. Forty blocks, for what was to be the start of my real adventure. The Fitbit step-counter on my wrist must have thought it had been stolen.
I walked from Central Park to Lower Manhattan, ending up in Chelsea Market at lunchtime, where the food options were incredible. Starving, I chose an Italian place with a menu I could afford. Oh – they had a spring cocktail on offer. How lovely – yes, please! And some pasta!
Yikes – no purse!
I sat like a queen, sunburn throbbing, waiting for my drink, trying and doubtless failing to look like a native New Yorker. I rummaged in my backpack (tourist giveaway alert right there) for my special Moleskine notebook, which I was using to journal my trip.
But… hang on… Yikes – no purse. I’d been robbed. I had one of those run-to-the-loo sensations. Or, had I actually been robbed? I couldn’t specifically recall putting my purse in my bag when I left the hotel…
Prickling with shame, I confessed to the waiter who’d brought my drink, and fled. It was a long, long way back to my hotel, but I had no option but to walk. Then, rummaging in my pocket for a paper hankie, out fell my topless bus pass, like Willy Wonka’s golden ticket, still valid for two more hours.
With a romcom sprint along the Riverside Highway, I flagged down a tour bus and climbed on, sightseeing my way anxiously back up the gorgeous, mean streets of Manhattan. Surely, surely my purse was in my room…
Then we crashed into a lorry. Ach, darnit. I think I was the first person onboard to realise that we wouldn’t be seeing many more sights on that bus that day, so I got off and hoofed it many, many blocks northwards.
Tummy rumbling, I kept passing shops and food outlets, thinking: “Ooh, that looks nice…” before remembering I had no money. Not only did that purse contain my credit card, dollars and driving licence, but the purse itself had been a birthday present last year and had cost… Oh, never mind.
We could have met as equals
My heart was pounding when I got back to my hotel. Opening the door, I saw my room had been pristinely made up by room service. I whirled around – no purse. With a surge of panic, I tried to plan what to do – contact my bank, phone my husband, dig out my insurance details…
Close to tears, I slumped onto the immaculate bed, only to feel an uncomfortable wee lump under my butt. My purse. Neatly and safely tucked up. And, of course, unmolested.
So, what do you do then? There, in the capital of tipping?
Really, wasn’t I just saying: ‘Thank you, room service, for not being a thief’?
Well, first, I wrote a long, grateful note and left it in my room, along with money, thanking the housekeeping staff member for looking after my purse. Then I went down to reception to tell them what their lovely housekeeping person had done, so that their excellent work would hopefully be noted.
It was, of course, the least I could have done. But, really, wasn’t I just saying: “Thank you, room service, for not being a thief”?
It would have been nicer to have seen the person directly. We could have had a conversation and, hopefully, a hug. And, of course, I’d have given them something as a thank you token. We could have met as equals.
Erica Munro is a novelist, playwright, screenwriter and freelance editor
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