Titillating Tales of Terrible Tourists, v.4: The Case of the Delinquent Driver

The scene: Morning, the day of the SF Marathon.  Also, the day after those wretched girls from Dallas wreaked havoc on my self-esteem.

7:25a – Get in car and leave house, making sure to give myself enough time to get to the Ferry Building knowing that many roads would be closed along the way.

7:45a – Arrive at the Ferry Building.  As it happens, the drive wasn’t so bad after all.

7:50a – Witness the start of the 10K fun run.

7:55a – Cheer on the marathon runners as they pass by on their way to the finish line.

8:00a – Loiter around the Ferry Building awaiting the check-in person for my tour.

8:05a – Start the meet & greet process of my day and get briefed on the altered boarding procedure

8:07a – Meet my soul mate.  Who is my soul mate? A tall, handsome, debonair, 50-ish London-dwelling doctor with a full head of salt and pepper hair, good teeth, and piercing blue eyes.  How did I know he was my soul mate?  Because every time he spoke to me, his eyes looked deep into my soul, and I couldn’t look away.  Hell, I was ready to just ditch everything and run away with him—and based on what would soon transpire, I probably should have done just that.

8:12a – My soul mate realized that he was hogging all of my attention, so he stepped aside to allow me to mingle with others and gather the group.

8:15a – My fellow tour guide took his group across the street and boarded their bus.

8:25a – I gathered my group together and walked them across the Embarcadero to Market street where we were to board our bus.

8:29a – The bus wasn’t there.

8:33a – The bus still wasn’t there.

8:34a – My passengers were complaining that I made them walk across the street and there wasn’t a bus.

8:35a – I called the driver, and the conversation went something like this:

Me: Where are you?

Delinquent Driver: All the roads are closed.  I can’t get to the Embarcadero.

Me: I know.  It’s the marathon.  You should be getting on the Embarcadero.  We’re on Market.

DD: I can’t get there.  All the roads are closed.

Me: No they’re not.  I drove here.

DD: Well, Market’s closed.

Me: No it’s not.  Where are you?

DD: I’m at the ball park.  I’ll be there in 5 minutes.

I hung up the phone, and looked at the 40 increasingly irritated tourists trying to think of what to say.  “Well, the driver is on his way.  He’ll be here shortly.”  I then tried to make small talk with them, but they weren’t really having it.  My soul mate was by my side.  He knew it wasn’t my fault.

8:42a – My group was getting restless.  They complained that they should get refunds.  They thought I should take them all to a bathroom.  One man blathered on about how we were going to cut out a winery (which wasn’t going to happen).  Others complained that we would get back to the city an hour late (which also wasn’t going to happen).

8:45a – I called the check-in person across the street to tell her that my driver still hadn’t arrived.  Her answer, “I know.  He said he’s on the way.”

8:47a – I called the driver looking for an ETA.

Me: Where are you?

DD: Five minutes.

Me: I’m not looking for a time.  I want to know exactly where you are.

DD: Almost there.

Me: What intersection?

DD: Three minutes.

Me: You and I both know that’s not true.  Where are you?

DD: I’ll be there. (Click.)

8:49a – I called the driver again.  He didn’t answer.

8:51a – I called the check-in person.  The lead tour guide (my immediate supervisor) answered.  He was of absolutely no help.

8:54a – I called the driver again.

Me: So?

DD: Almost there.

Me: Be more specific.

DD: Two minutes.

Me: What street are you on?

DD: Market.

Me: Where on Market.

DD: One mile away.

Me: I’ll walk the people to the corner.  We’ll meet you there.

8:57a –I announce to the group that we are going to walk one block away to meet the bus.  As we start walking, I see one of our buses driving toward us.  I assumed it was my driver.  I halted the group.  The bus drove past us, and I was enraged for two reasons. First, why would he drive past us?  Second, why was he driving a bus that only fit 27 passengers instead of 40?  I ran over to the bus, and my group of 39 lemmings followed me (despite the fact that I made no command to do so), and the answers to both of my questions were immediately revealed when the people from the 9 o’clock city tour started boarding.  It wasn’t our bus.

9:01a – I apologized to the group and called the driver again.

Me: Where are you?  We were supposed to leave a half an hour ago.

DD: A mile away.

Me: How is that possible?  Traffic isn’t stopped.

DD: I’m on my way.

Me: Where are you?

DD: I’m at First.

Me: No you’re not.  I’m looking at First Street.  You aren’t there.

DD: Well, I just left the ball park. They made me turn around.

Me: I thought you were on Market.

DD: I’ll be there in five minutes.

Me: You need to be here now.

DD:  (Click.)

9:04a – My group is planning a mutiny.  I don’t blame them.

9:05a – I apologize profusely, while my soul mate stands by my side.

9:07a – I walk out into Market Street to see if I can spot the bus.  My group follows me into traffic.  For their safety, I yelled at them to get back on the sidewalk.

9:12a – The bus finally shows up.

9:14a – I board the bus and discover that my driver decided to bring a date to work, and she was napping in my seat.  I’m not sure where they met, but it wouldn’t surprise me if she worked at the Hi-Tide or the Tunnel Top (for those that aren’t aware, these particular bars are…well…thinly veiled Asian prostitution fronts).  Why do I think that?  Well, it mostly had to do with fact that she was wearing a belly-bearing tube top and jeans that came dangerously close to her hoo-haa…that and the make-up.  But I’m not one to judge another’s fashion choices, especially when it’s drizzly and 55 degrees outside.

9:15a – Wanting nothing more than to rip the driver a new asshole, I simply say hello and instruct him to drive over the Bay Bridge.

9:18a – I get on the microphone, apologize again to the group, and try to appease them with some sub-par commentary.  Needless to say, I was way off my game.

9:34a – The driver was speeding recklessly down the highway, and I was having trouble standing (since, as you may recall, I had no seat).  Also, since his lady friend was napping in my seat, I had nothing to hold.  I noticed that there was one empty seat, and it just so happened to be next to my soul mate.

9:35a – I started passing out water to the group, and when I finished, I sat next to my soul mate.

9:48a – I see that we are almost at our first winery (on time), so I resume my place at the front of the bus and give the passengers their instructions.

10:01a – We pull up to the winery, and I make an effort to let the passengers know that we arrived on time, so the schedule would run as planned.

10:02a – I shot the driver a dirty look and left with my group.

From this point forward, the day ran fairly smoothly.  My driver and his lady hung out on or near the bus.  I never acknowledged her presence though there were a few passengers that knew she was a stowaway and wanted to add that into their case for getting a refund.

While we dined at the second winery, I befriended two hilarious British men from Northern England. They were celebrating their 50^th birthdays, and I could tell that we would be fast friends.  As it happens, we were.

On the ferry ride back to San Francisco, I hung out with my northern solidarity friends for quite some time, and then I noticed my soul mate sitting by himself.  I took a seat and was immediately drawn into his gaze.  We talked and laughed.  He told me how wonderful I was.  I secretly hoped he’d invite me to dinner.  And then, I had to run away like Cinderella.  The boat docked and I had to be the first one out.  I was.  My hilarious, yet bumbling, English friends hung out near me as I bid adieu to my passengers.  Then, my soul mate (whose name I never learned) walked off the boat, fixed his gaze on me, and gave me a hug and a kiss on the cheek.  And that was the last time we’d see each other.

Not so for my birthday boys!  They invited me out for drinks, and we went on an all-night odyssey of dining and drinking through San Francisco. 

So, while the day started off terribly, it did end quite well.

And, in case you were wondering, that driver was fired months later when he attempted to rob all of the company’s buses on his day off.  It was then revealed that he had a long criminal history and was raging drug addict.  Awesome!

Who Wants a Tip?

I do!  I do!

Well, I’ve been a tour guide for 8 months now, and I’ve learned a thing or two.  I’ve picked up some new skills—good and bad.  One of the good ones is that I have no problem talking to random strangers (though I still appreciate my privacy, so don’t think I WANT to talk to every crazy on MUNI…I just can without feeling totally awkward).  One of the bad ones…well, I profile.  I know.  I never thought I’d fall into the trap that so many police stations across the country have, but I did…and I do.  I can look at a group of people, and within a couple minutes (sometimes less), I can tell you who will tip and who won’t.  In case you’re wondering, young people (say, 27 and under) rarely tip…and middle-aged Americans are the best.

Now, this is the first time in my storied work career where I’ve worked for tips, and I have to admit that it’s a little strange.  In the beginning, I was very uncomfortable with it.  Mostly, I was uncomfortable asking for money.  I still am to a certain extent, but I’m getting better—this is my livelihood after all.  More and more, I realize that the tips you get often have nothing to do with you or your level of service.  It has more to do with the people giving the tips.

I’ve had good days, and I’ve had bad ones.  But, I discovered that, apparently, my good days are never as good as those of my male counterparts, and my bad days are FAR worst.  People are much more willing to believe that verbal praise is worth more to me than money.  Unfortunately for me, my landlord doesn’t accept rave reviews of the apartment as payment.  They just want rent money.

Don’t get me wrong here, I’m not hurting, and I do see the tips as being an added bonus to my work.  It’s just a little discouraging to see others who are on the same level as me making more money.  So why?  Why do men get more?  Is it because people have some sort of ingrained sexism that makes them think that guys are providing for a family?  Do they command more respect?  I just don’t get it.  I’m supporting myself, and I am not shy about letting people know.  Hell, I can’t count how many times people (rudely, I might add) ask me how much my rent is.  I’m a little uncomfortable saying, but they usually are pretty insistent.  When they are, I usually give them an idea of San Francisco rents and tell them about where mine falls…which ain’t cheap.  That conversation usually turns into, “Wow.  How do you do it?  You must make good money doing this.”  The answer—no.  I’ve never made “good” money, and I’ve always chosen to live in expensive places.  So how do I do it?  I know how much money I have.  I accept that most of it goes to rent, and I don’t spend frivolously (all the time anyway).  Nine times out of ten, those people that are so interested in how much rent I pay versus my income don’t tip me.

What is even more amazing to me is the people that only tip a dollar or two.  I’m not asking for much, but I think that $5 per person is a pretty respectable amount to tip your tour guide when you’ve spent 9 hours with them and they have gone out of their way to do things NOT in their job description like help you find restaurants and directions (sometimes even helping make reservations at said places).  Furthermore, when you pay $100 for a tour, giving the tour guide five bucks is ONLY 5%.  I’m not asking for 15-20% like a waiter.  The people that give me a dollar two (or worst, an unruly group of 10 people that give me a single dollar as their collective tip) are probably the same people that throw a dollar in the tip jar at Starbucks.  Why is that person more deserving of a higher percentage tip-wise than I am?  They spent a total of 1.5 minutes with you and on your drink.  I spent 9 long hours with you.  Being funny and helpful.  It’s maddening.

Of course, the best tip story I have involves a very rude IT professional.  It was a relatively small tour, and this guy, we’ll call him “Cool Guy” felt that there was nothing wrong whatsoever with taking phone calls on his cell phone while I was giving commentary…even though I ask that people refrain from the use of their cell phones.  It’s not so much for me, but for all of the people on the bus onto whom they are thrusting their personal conversations.  Once there was a girl who loudly did her banking over the phone while on the bus.  People are idiots.

Back to the story…  The day went on. Nothing that spectacular happened.  Occasionally Cool Guy would flirt with me, despite the fact that it was obvious that another fella on the bus had a little crush on me (and happened to be hanging out with Cool Guy all day).  (ed. I was interested in neither, but still…it seems as though Cool Guy was only flirting with me to be an ass to the other guy).  Toward the end of the tour, Cool Guy pulled me aside.

 

Cool Guy: You’re going to have to call the office for your tip.

Me: What?

CG: They have your tip at the office.

Me: I don’t know what you’re talking about.

CG: Just tell them my name, and they’ll know to give it to you.

Me: Uhhh…you need to start over.  I don’t understand.

CG: I took your company’s airport shuttle to my hotel.

Me: Okay.  I didn’t know we did that.

CG: Yeah.  You do.

Me: And what does that have to do with my tip?

CG: I booked this tour before I took the airport shuttle, but then I saw that if you book the tour and the shuttle, you get $10 cash back.

Me: Okay…

CG: Well, I was told to ask the driver for my $10 back.  So, I asked your driver, and he said he didn’t know what I was talking about.

Me: I’m not surprised.  I don’t know what you’re talking about.  The driver for the tour doesn’t carry around company money.

CG: Well, he was supposed to give me $10.  That’s the money I was using for your tip.

Me: I think you were misinformed.  Perhaps you were supposed to ask the airport shuttle driver for the cash back?

CG: It doesn’t matter.  The point is, you need to call the office to get my tip.

Me: And what do I say to them?

CG: Just give them my name.

Me: And what is that?

CG: CoolGuy69

Me: Yeah, I’ll get right on that.

After this conversation, he insisted that I listen to his iPod with him.  I never got that $10 because I know that the people in the office don’t give a rat’s ass about my tips or giving people their cash back.  Jerk wad.  I would have preferred to not have that ridiculous conversation at all.  All it did was make me mad.

And that’s pretty much how it goes.  Yay, tips!