Serving Cunt
How is it possible to feel like such an alien in an English speaking country? The jetlag probably doesn’t help, but everything is unsettling me in Toronto. Everyone I have interacted with so far has been a service industry professional, which means it’s all been conducted with glassy North American falseness, and the look of an animal caught in a trap, though I might just be projecting. I really do feel like I can detect a hunted look, a constant panic that I might see through the veneer of cheerfulness and good service. I want to take them gently by the arms and tell them that I promise I will be tipping. Please feel free to have a bad day anyway. A bartender manages to apologise to me several times to no purpose whatsoever, and then looks heartbroken when I need to go and get cash out, certain that I am not coming back. I don’t know whether I have a particularly dry, humourless bearing, but everyone seems to be reacting to me like a dangerous psychopath who needs to be appeased for l...
