Working my first international job has been a source of great amusement during phone calls with friends living in the United States. The silliness of miscommunication between colleagues who share the same mother tongue, the misfires caused by accents, and the inevitable differences that add spice to what were once routine interactions in my life have all made for interesting stories.
“Can I have some paper?”
In the midst of pouring my almost-perfect latte art for an order of two cappuccinos, I turn towards the direction of the thick Scottish accent. A man approaches me from the other side of the counter, his body language suggesting this will be a quick and simple transaction.
I summon the people-pleasing demeanor of readiness and commitment that I reserve for customers. “You want some paper? Like to write on?”
He remains in his expectant pose, leaning over the counter with his hand extended shaking his head. “No, pay-per.”
“Yes, like white paper.” I say in desperation. With each repetition of this mysterious word, the man and I inch towards each other, trying to find means of bridging the gap of understanding almost symbolically, as if meeting in the middle physically, will resolve the misunderstanding cognitively.
“No, no, no, PEE-PEHR,” he states once again, his tone and body language still expressing belief in my ability to accomplish whatever he is requesting. In the reflection of his glasses, I can see the face of an eager confused girl desperately hoisting a white notepad in the air.
I rack my brain for synonyms as the man leans over the counter, his hand still extended, empty of the item he has entrusted me to provide, which I have utterly failed to do so.
“Like tissue paper? Like a napkin?” My questions are less of a clarifying intention and more like a pleading request.
“No.” He sighs a big sigh that demonstrates he is on the brink of giving up. “No, PEEP-”
Out of the corner of my eye, I see my coworker’s arm extending past me over the counter as he places a small pepper shaker in the man’s hand. The man doesn’t wait for me to conclude our interaction with relief and understanding. He briskly turns away with his required item and returns to his soup. My coworker hastily returns to his tasks, as if it was all a normal part of his routine.
With both men parting from me I reflect, nod in understanding, and then twist back to my tasks.
“Margiottas ripped you off.”
My manager laughed when I returned with the requested items from the nearby corner store to stock our kitchen. I presented the receipt along with the change, and she quickly plucked one of the coins from my hand, stating that it was an outdated coin that was no longer accepted. I leaned in to get a better look. The counterfeit coin lacked the dual colors of silver with a gold rim; instead, it was a dull off-gold color. Why would the local family corner store, Margiottas, betray me so? Giving me counterfeit money in change? Did they know that I wouldn’t know?
A few weeks later, my boss announces agitatedly to any nearby employees with an accusing tone. “We don’t take paper notes anymore, we need the plastic ones.”
“Notes? Paper notes? You mean receipts?” With his very last ounce of patience he pulled out a few 5 pound “notes” from the cash drawer to demonstrate what he means. “No notes, see how these are plastic? We only take plastic notes. Never paper.” I nod in understanding of the concept but the back of my mind squints in suspicion. Why would the material of a note matter? Are all dollar bills made of paper?”
These interactions, combined with the fear of holding up the queue every time someone paid in change rather than by credit card, led me to decide it was time to practice with UK coins and currency.
My opportunity came as my manager lifted the tip jar back from the counter, determining that it required counting and disbursement. Before she had the chance to peek inside the jar, I raised my hand.
“I volunteer! I volunteer as tribute!”
For the last hour of the shift, I had been sitting by the window with the tip jar poured out in front of me, organizing each foreign (not so foreign here) coin into neatly stacked piles to be counted. There are more coins with UK currency than with US currency, which is tactilely satisfying when you can pay for a pint of Tennents with a few coins. Furthermore, each coin differs slight from one year to the next with the more recent coins resembling the queen in her latter years and the older coins depicting a young lady.
I lined up each of the coins from the lowest value to the highest, noting the slight differences from one to the next. The fifty pence coin is bigger than the twenty, however so is the ten pence. And the penny is larger than the 5 pence. Ten is larger than twenty pence but the fifty is larger than the ten but the same size as the two pound but the two pound has two colors while the fifty is only silver…
I count and recount. Finally getting comfortable and enjoying the tactile reward of stacking and organizing coins like poker chips.
“That makes 67 pounds in total.” I proudly state to Teeny. She then proceeds to “check my maths” and gives me the nod of approval.
“We can now place the toasties in the bin.”
I delegate the task to my colleague, Bella. Checking the time, I strategize all the closing tasks remaining for the evening to ensure a rapid close tonight. Thankfully, things were going well, and I was hopeful to be in my room with the candles lit and my book on my lap by 10:08 p.m. that night.
Bella hesitates, her eyes scanning the numerous toasties in the display fridge. “Are you sure?”
I briefly turn away from scrubbing the coffee machine to double-check how many toasties were left and the time. We can easily preserve them overnight in the fridge and snag their plates for washing from the display fridge. “No, definitely.”
“Okay.” Bella gathers the toasties (which are called paninis in the USA) and makes her way to the back with an air of uncertainty.
Checking the register for a queue of customers and quickly scanning the cafe for tables that may need busing, I smile at the scarcely populated cafe and return to my cleaning tasks, confident in my efficient and quick close underway.
“Kaylin, are you sure? There is quite a-lawt here.” Bella leans out of the kitchen with her concerned questions curved with a strong Australian accent.
“Ya, I know, it was a slow day today. Not many toasties were sold.”
“But do they really need to go into the bin?”
I look up at her and notice something was off. I grew uncertain we were planning the same future for the food.
“Well we can just count them up and that way tomorrow they will have some-OHHHH. Sorry, the, uh, not in the trash, the BINS-I mean TUBS.”
“Ohhhhhhh.” Bella breathes out a laugh of understanding. “These.” She says as she hoists up large plastic boxes meant for food storage. “Yes exactly.” I said through the smile that pulled on my face. All at once the scattered memories swan in the forefront of my memory of several instances with colleagues referring to a trash can as a bin.
“Haha I understand your hesitation now. Thinking that I was asking you to throw all that food away!”
“You have to stop being so American.” Teeny states with her arms flinging out wide to demonstrate the setting.
“You may just be average in America, but to these British men it is the nicest a girl has ever been to them. You have them thinking ‘this girl really likes me’ and will think you’re flirting with them.”
I nod. Typical animated American customer service does stick out like turmeric stains on tablecloths against the background of UK propriety. Upon further reflection, I would agree it is quite strange, going as far as saying “How are you today?” to a stranger merely trying to collect a routine cup of coffee. Why do we do that? We truly never mean it. It’s honestly quite bizarre for anyone to say anything besides “good.” And we all know that cannot be the majority of moods and well-being. Unless someone is really feeling excellent and shares their uncontainable jovial mood, responding with a, “I am in excellent spirits today, my dear, and how are you? Also, may I have the strawberry tart, if you please.”
Nevertheless, I find Scottish customers to be simply the nicest. Beyond that, working in a corner cafe within a residential neighborhood breeds multiple interactions with regular customers. Every Friday, I enjoy serving Fae and Liz their americano and latte paired with a cake slice. On Sunday mornings, Morene enjoys her americano plain as she reads the paper or visits. Within the first month of my new job, it was easy to catch on to the coffee-oriented routines of my neighbors, and each time I recalled their order or name, they returned my enthusiasm for the growing familiarity effortlessly developing as we all play along with this game called ‘society.’ Over the last month, the normal greetings have turned into lively conversations observed by my colleagues with eyebrows curved over their eyes as though I am a strange breed. “How do you know everyone’s name?”
Living in a quaint little neighborhood in a city like Edinburgh feels just like living in a small town. I’ve started seeing customers I met in the cafe at the corner grocery, Margiotta’s, or in the meadows. One of the regular customers, Randy, I actually met in a nearby pub while watching a football game. I recognized him each time he frequented the cafe to enjoy wine and olives with a group of friends.
One such night, he and five other neighborhood residents who frequented the cafe found their usual table and began with their customary order of olives. As I was serving their wine, I approached Steven to fill his glass, but he waved his hand and said, “No, no, no, serve Al first, please,” gesturing to Randy. My brain felt a disconnect as I round the table to Randy… or “Al” was it?
I am not sure why, but as I was pouring wine over Randy’s shoulder, I thought I better clarify, “Your name is Randy, right?”
Randy looked up at me with raised eyebrows and a confused smile. “Randy? No! My name is Alex.”
“Alex? Are you serious? That’s not even close to Randy. How did I get that so wrong?”
The table broke into laughter as memories of the last three months of running into “Randy” came forth in my mind. Several times now, I’ve run into the corner shop and seen Randy—Alex—wearing his headphones and not hearing me when I greeted him. Or maybe he heard me every time but didn’t respond because it wasn’t his name? Except, no, there were definitely times I waved him down while passing on the street and used the name Randy. Come to think of it, he always removed his headphones after the initial greetings, probably never hearing what name I was using.
I chuckled with them, slightly embarrassed, as each of Alex’s friends joked about the new nickname. I spurred them on in laughter sharing all the moments in the last few months that I had greeted Ran-Alex around the neighborhood, tonight even, and he has always (if he had noticed me) smiled back.
“You know what ‘Randy’ actually means in Scotland, right?” Mary, sitting to the left of Alex, stares at me with a knowing look that always tells me my sheltered, naive flag is flying high. I twist my ear towards her to prompt her to continue.
“It means—” she mouths the word “horny.”
My jaw drops, and I look to Alex apologetically as the table continues to tumble into laughter. Not only have I gotten this man’s name wrong, but I was publicly, with my strong American accent (that I am told carries), calling him an adult adjective.
Maybe Teeny has a point. It may not be a bad idea to “stop being so American.”
Indeed, over the last few months of living out my barista dream, I have discovered a new way to engage with this beautiful city and its culture that I simply adore. There have been many picturesque, movie-like moments, but my favorite has to be right now.
The entire cafe is all mine. I’m seated in the window seat with the front door wide open, letting the fresh rain smell waft inside. Sipping a latte I made for myself, I boldly blast Henry Jamison, Novo Amor, and Gregory Alan Isakov on the speakers since there’s no one around to judge.
All the dishes are washed, every table is clean, the floor is swept, and there’s nothing to do until I close in four hours (after which I’ll likely be joining some friends at the bar).
Somehow, no customers in the middle of July, no coworkers—just me. In this little corner cafe, in the middle of my neighborhood, in the heart of Edinburgh. Exactly how I would have wished it to be.
Travel Pathology 
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