I have an irrational fear of ambiguous tipping situations. You might think that with all of my traveling I would have seen them all. But no, I keep running into new ones. It bothers me because I don’t want to accidentally stiff someone and later realize it and feel bad. I worked for tips all through college, so I know how it feels to get stiffed. Worse yet, I hate to offer a tip only to find out I’m talking to the manager of the hotel. (Yeah, it happened. They need to dress less like bell hops.)
Last night I arrived at the airport where my speaking client had arranged ground transportation to the hotel. I’m waiting by the curb for a ride of unknown character and I’m running through the tipping options in my head just to be prepared:
1. If it’s a limo service, no tip because the driver’s gratuity is built into the price charged to the client.
2. If it’s the hotel’s own courtesy limo, the driver is hoping for a tip.
3. If it’s an employee of the company that is hiring me, I don’t tip because he’s probably a vice president of something in his day job.
An unmarked van pulls up. Crap. I don’t have a solution for “guy in unmarked van.” Luckily another conference attendee and his wife are coming along and they engage the driver in conversation. Perhaps I could glean the information I needed.
Now let me digress and add some context before I continue. Those of you who travel a lot know that if you ask a driver about his life, you never get a story that sounds like this: “Well, I was a drifter and a hobo for awhile, but then I got this job driving you around. It’s the highlight of my life.”
Instead you usually get something more like this: “After I won the Nobel Prize I became a dissident in my country and had to flee. I worked as a nuclear weapons inspector for awhile. Then I did some software programming, which is easy because I have a doctorate degree in math. Then I invented The Clapper and retired. Now I just do this job to help out a friend.”
And so our unmarked van driver told us about his Fulbright Scholarship, leaving Brazil because it wasn’t a big enough challenge to live in a country where you can speak the language (he really said that), and becoming an International consultant. He used to be a good golfer but now he prefers flying kites. And he only does this job once in awhile to help a friend who owns the limo company. Plus his wife likes the fact that it “keeps him off the streets” although as he pointed out – HA HA! – ironically, he is working on the streets!
None of this is making me happy, and not just because of his jokes. I had decided in advance to try and tip him, but now I’m not so sure. Are you supposed to tip international consultants who are just “helping a friend”? And isn’t the gratuity built in to the price his friend’s company is charging the client? Where’s the little sign in the van that says “Operator appreciates tips”? I needed more clues, dammit!
I like to prepare for the tipping moment by transferring the appropriate cash from my wallet to my right-front pant pocket where it is staged for a casual quickdraw. I had already made the transfer and now I realize this driver might have a greater net worth than I do. To hear him tell it, he’s only in it for the fun.
I decide to let the other couple in the van get out first and see what the husband does. If he tips, I’ll go for it too. Our driver unloads the bags from the back and a swarm of hotel bell hops surround the pile like vultures on a dead wildebeest. I’m totally tip-blocked from the driver. I watch the husband and after some hesitation, he coughs up a few bucks. The driver thanks him and heads quickly back to get in the van. NOW I HAVE TO TIP HIM, AND FAST, BEFORE HE MAKES HIS GETAWAY! But a pile of luggage and four bell hops are in the way. I hop over the smallest bag, elbow a bell hop and yell to the driver. He turns with a “fight or flight” look on his face, expecting the worst. I thrust five bucks at him and said something that may or may not have been “Take my frickin’ money! Make my guilt and ambiguity go away! Buy another kite, you magnificently interesting bastard!” Or it might have been “Thank you.”
Either way, I don’t feel good about it. I know he realizes I wasn’t going to tip him until the other guy did. Now I have to live with that for the rest of my life.
Why can’t I be afraid of something normal, like North Korea?