To tip, or not to tip?

That…is the question.

Wow, almost a month with no posts! Mea culpa, mea culpa! The passing of time has been alternating between molasses-in-January and whizzing past, and my husband's demanding essay writing schedule has consumed every ability of mine to use our computer. I could post via mobile, but ain't nobody got time for dat. (Which is my way of saying the small phone screen hurts my eyes after a while).

So anyway, today I have been musing on the phenomenon of tipping -you know, waiters and such- and how the attitude towards it is among some of the striking differences between living in one place or the other. Something you can encounter in a peripatetic life is how drastically different each culture is with respect to giving people free money. Funny, really, that in a capitalistic society such as America we give people more free money (via tipping) than in the socialist countries of Europe. Anthony Bourdain, on a recent episode of his show The Layover, exclaimed: "no way, I'm a 20% tipper no matter where I go" while reading an Italian guidebook out loud, in the section where tipping was discussed. Yes, right, and I am sure the Europeans just love him, don't they? No wonder he has so many cool friends everywhere to visit in his shows.

But it's not that easy. We are not all Anthony Bourdain (praise God- what a terrible world that would be), and we cannot all afford to tip 20% whenever and wherever, unless it is the social norm and we are expected to do so. But is it the social norm? Who, what, when, how much? That remains to be seen. 

I was looking forward to living in Europe, where [I thought] some, if not most, things would be exceptionally clear and uncomplicated. Now that I have revealed my unrealistic and excessive optimism to you, it is safe to say that I was WRONG, and as an American abroad there are complications and subtle differences to find at every societal turn. No surprises there, now that I think of it. 

I did think that living in an English-speaking country abroad would be easier than the alternative, and it has been true. But one of the reasons I let a blissful sigh trip delicately from my lips while contemplating life in England was because of tipping. After spending August in Switzerland (where there actually is no tipping ever), I sat at a table doing something-or-other, let out said blissful sigh, and thought: "oh, how easy England will be." I was looking forward to not needing to worry about tipping extra, to whom, and how much. It is just one of those things that made life simple in Switzerland. I don't even know why I care so much about this subject, but it really illustrates one of the key differences in cultures, so it is worth dwelling on for us peripatetics.

In America, we really like to give away money. What other reason can we give for the fact that we tip everything that moves? If a hotel employee so much as looks at you, he gets a tip. I will always remember my grandma Barb telling me that whenever she went to NYC, she armed herself with an arsenal of $10's, $5's and $1's. Because you just gotta be a good tipper. There's the cabbies, the doormen, the bellboy, room service peeps, not to mention waiters, bartenders, and whether or not you get any Spa services done - Lordy be, the list is endless! 

In America, we tip the people from whom we get takeout, too. Now this really doesn't make sense to me. Unless there's delivery in the pouring rain involved, why should I give extra money to someone who pushes a button at the register and assembles some food products? Because he gave me extra napkins, duh! And didn't screw up my takeout order! (Let's all face it, this is rare- the takeout order seems doomed to be messed up in some way, always). So, OK, if you get your takeout all in one piece, with all of the correct components, please do throw some cash at those people, because they got it RIGHT. 

And, granted, I should not be complaining. I have been a Barista for years and enjoyed being on the receiving end of America's over-tipping for just as many of them. As a Barista in America, I got cash. On top of getting a completely fair wage (well above the minimum), we would get $3-$4 extra per hour in tips alone. And everyone loved (LOVED) the Christmas tipper, who would fling a casual Ulysses or Benjamin ever-so-nonchalantly in the tip jar, because it's Christmas time, and well, because COFFEE. Hello, we made amazing coffee. Not gonna lie. If there is one thing I will miss in my future medical life, it is that, at the end of the week, there isn't a fat wad of cash with a clip that has my name on it, sitting preciously in a little box at the coffee shop, awaiting my arrival. (Not to mention the free coffee).

An entirely different angle to this discussion is that I truly wish waiters in America would just get a decent wage and not have to rely on tips only. Getting $2 an hour? Forget about tips, there is just something in that base pay that seems inhumane. What if the restaurant is slow for the evening? Or if you get a bad tipper, then there goes your money for breakfast the next day. Or if you get a table of Europeans? Bahh- I can't even think about it. This is another topic entirely, and it is definitely something that needs to change.  

In Switzerland, since it is completely untouchably awesome and still has its eyes set on retaining the old-school European values that once made Europe unforgettable, there actually is no tipping, as I mentioned before. Further, there is some aspect of insult to it as well. They would think "Why are you giving me this money, do you think I need your small change? Who do you think I am? Poor?" They get paid enough and their currency is strong, so just do not bother. 

But I now turn to the problem with the U.K.

In America, we tip EVERYONE. In Switzerland (and France, too), you tip no one. The U.K. is a really confusing blend of both camps, and I seriously do not even know what to do. 

A simple google.co.uk search on tipping will reveal people saying OPPOSITE THINGS. Who do you trust? I know it's a cold, hard world out there, but seriously I couldn't find a col, hard number or percentage from anyone. Some say tip 10%, some say not at all, some say leave a little something on the table, some say really, don't tip, it's insulting. How am I to know who gets a fair wage and who needs or does not need a tip? That doesn't even begin to cover salon and spa services, which we always tip for in America. When I was looking on message boards I discovered that in England you definitely tip for haircuts and at hair salons, but no one had a percentage- just "5 pounds or so" (this could be 10%, realistically, but it may also be 5%- who knows). However, you do not tip for spa services like massage and waxing. What about the salons that offer both hair and other beauty services? They aren't spas, per se, but they don't simply do hair. It is discombobulating. And it feels so wrong for me to enter any sort of salon and not leave a gratuity. 

If there had to be a scapegoat, I would blame it on the increasing American influence on European culture. Especially for English speaking European countries like England, there have been a lot of pieces of the puzzle here that are starting to reflect "America". One of those things might be tipping.It's natural, sure, and not necessarily a bad thing. But the consequence is that I end up living in these confusing times. I would imagine that 15-20 years ago there was no tipping here like in the rest of Europe. But Americans kept coming and tipping, or something, and people were all like "heeyy- free money!" (who wouldn't like that? Seriously that's why I don't understand the people who get insulted by it) and by and by it is starting to be the norm here. I don't know what the average waiter salary is in the UK though, perhaps some people more familiar than I can remark on this. I also know that pub culture in England has a different standard for tipping than American bars. In fact, doing the same google search on tipping in pubs revealed a heated argument on the discussion boards, which amused me to no end! I still don't know what to do about that though. From what I read through tears of laughter at how trivial people can be, I divined that you either a) tip the barman/woman b) offer to buy him/her a drink c) don't do anything, and shrink away from the bar sheepishly? Who knows. One lad online tried to divide pub tipping into categories of "whether or not you sat at the bar and conversed with the barman vs. sat a table and didn't talk to the barman". 

Even as I write this, I am looking at a gift voucher we received for the Trout Pub in Oxford. They are supposed to have good food and a nice view of the river. On the back of this voucher in bold lettering are the words:

"Please don't forget to leave a gratuity"

Alright England, you've thoroughly confused me. To avoid ruining someone's day, I may as well be the American tipper and take a leaf out of Mr. Bourdain's book if I'm not sure. Until next time! 

Blenhiem Palace

Oh, holy of holies! Be not discouraged! This week has been SO sunny!

Accordingly, I wanted to take advantage of this beautiful sun we've been encountering lately. So, early on in the week, despite the gripping wind (results of the "storm of the century" that supposedly happened last weekend) I promptly took a cycling ride up north to the town of Woodstock, and in so doing, found myself at Blenheim Palace. Wind is much easier to deal with than rain, so it really was no issue. I had a feeling I would get cold on the ride up, so I prepared well by using the GLOVES my mother got me for Christmas this past year. Thanks Mom! They saved my life.

Ready to go:

Note rain jacket sleeve- because you NEVER know (it didn't, though)

Also discovered that the bike I got (aka Gladys, aka The Peugeot, aka BBE- Best Bike Ever) has a LION KING bell, which makes me happy:

The ride up north to Woodstock was…interesting. The road is called "Woodstock Road" and it goes north to Woodstock (duh). At a certain point though, it turns into "Oxford Road" because, well, it also goes south to Oxford, no? Roads are named like this all over the place. London Road, going east turns into Oxford Road at a given point. I'm burning with curiosity to know who decided the exact place where the name would switch. Obviously, there is the issue with traveling north on Oxford road and south on Woodstock road, didn't they think about this? You would think one side of the road would be named differently, but no, they didn't go that far. Clearly, I spend way too much time thinking about things that don't matter (ask my husband, it's true, he'll tell you the stories). 

Enough of that trivial digression. 

The ride was "interesting" because I was basically on the side of a highway most of the time. A turnpike, you might call it. Although it was smaller (more English version) of the huge American ones I'm used to, but still. GONE are the romantic images I had of England, that it was all charming cobblestones and village inns and vicarages. I mean, I saw a STARBUCKS AND A HOLIDAY INN EXPRESS AND A KENTUCKY FRIED CHICKEN!!! For crying out loud! "Where the bleep am I?!?!" Ran across my mind, practically tripped off the tongue as well (I've been known to utter angry things out loud whilst cycling, because I get nervous and everyone -pedestrians, cars, fellow cyclists- make me feel like they are about to kill me at any given moment). 

But still. Starbucks. Holiday Inn Express, Kentucky Fried Chicken. What?? They were all in a cluster off the highway, just as you would see in America, like a truckers stop or for a traveling family's comfort. It confused me, to say the least. Keeping calm and pedaling on, I moved onward and eventually saw this old 16th century pub (sinking roof and all) called the Turnpike: 

Just think, it was there when this highway road was no more than a dirt footpath, with the occasional horse and buggy, most likely. It looks older in real life. And you can tell mainly because you can see how short the doors are and how small the windows are, which is difficult to capture in a person-less photo.

Following the traumatic Americana event, the cool old pub, and other interesting sights. I came across this field of sheep on my left. The sun was shining, the clouds were puffy, and it just all looked magical. Faith in English charm restored, I snapped this photo:

Sheep friends. And in the distance you can make out a stone tower through the trees, I knew I was getting close to my destination.

After gazing at the sheep and the green fields for a few minutes, I pushed forward and turned left off of the busy highway and went down a country road, eventually arriving at the gates of Blenheim:

I talked them into giving me the student discount for entry (it wasn't hard, I was on a rusty bike with a lion king bell), and proudly cycled around the grounds in the bitter cold (but sunny!) weather. I was happy I had to take my bike, because only one other person was cycling around, and all the other poor souls had to walk because they drove here, in cars (no pity). The grounds are vast, and it would have taken forever for me to walk to all of the destinations. I had a half day to see all that Blenheim Palace had to offer, so I cycled up the path to the grassy knoll that led up to the Column of Victory, which you can barely make out in the distance here: 

This is the left front side of the Palace:

These are the front gates. The sun was not my friend (rather, its angle wasn't):

But here is a better one:

Whizzing on from the front gates, I went toward the Column of Victory (as mentioned) and went over the bridge and river:

And here is that bridge I was on from further away, at a different entrance to the Palace grounds (Palace on the far left):

I watched out for pheasants:

I decided to park Gladys and continue on foot to the Column of Victory:

Wow, I trod on so much poop to get to this column of victory thing, it was almost traumatic. I went through a veritable mine field of fecal matter to get to this place, thinking the whole time that this old memorial to some pompous, wealthy, Churchill ancestor and his battle victories BETTER be worth it, because my Toms might never recover from this horror. I turned and snapped a photo of the criminals responsible for such a mess:

I looked down at one point and saw a smudge of something brown on my ankle. Please be dirt, I thought. And moved on. The Column got closer, as I dodged more and more of the mines (by the way, I was always terrible at the game minesweeper, I don't know why):

Closer:

Finally, I arrived at the base of it! 

All of this writing is just to say that a dude back in 1705 won a great battle victory for the Queen, the Queen was happy, gave the dude title of Duke, Duke gets to build Blenheim Palace (after the name of the battle he won) and so on and forevermore is the 1st Duke of Marlborough (the 11th currently resides here):

Me at the base of the Column:

There is a Julius Caesar figure at the top, for victory I guess:

On the trudge back, couldn't help but glance at these fellows again, thanking them for the experience. It was a ball, really. Doing the poop-avoidance dance up to the column of victory was definitely in the cards for such a beautiful Tuesday. Thanks, sheep. (I think I made lamb for dinner that night, I really showed them).

Column of victory-ing over, I decided to get into the Palace and get warm:

Yep, then she happened:

It was inevitable, I suppose. But she actually gave a pretty amusing tour, and I joined in for part of it. She was in character as one of the old 18th century housemaids of the Palace, and all about ghosts and scaring the little kids. At one point, she was talking in a whisper about some previous Duke being dead and haunting one of the bedrooms, and then she let out a blood curdling shriek right in the middle of it, interrupting her own whisper-speech, and a kid watching fell to the floor. Needless to say, it made my day. 

A ceiling in the foyer, they spared no expense and the Palace took 25 years to build I think, and even then it wasn't finished:

A cool directional clock:

More from the foyer:

I found myself in the room where Winston Churchill was born: 

There was a tableau outside the bedroom with paraphernalia, including his honorary American citizen passport and letter from John F. Kennedy, which I looked ruefully at, wondering why I couldn't be good enough to be given honorary citizenship somewhere. Oh right, it's Winston Churchill we're talking about. 

Moving on:

I loved all of these rooms, and their blatant excess. This tapestry was actually really cool, and one of the historians said it took 200 men EIGHT YEARS to complete, and it was so tightly woven that it looks like a painting (it is depicting the battle of Blenheim, in Germany I think, where the first Duke won the victory that gave him dukedom and the palace):

One of the Duchesses rocked two or three of her babies in this cradle, can you imagine? It's like solid gold and modeled from a famous one in Italy:

Library:

It's pretty sad to see books caged, but there were some valuable ones so it makes sense:

This library room was my favorite room. Very long, big, and open, with tall ripply glass windows on the left looking out into the gardens. There real reason it was my favorite, though, is because it was this room that was converted into a hospital and convalescent home during WWI, and that era is so fascinating to me. They even had a photo on the wall that was taken during the War, to show how many beds there were. I looked all over the wood floors and noticed the scratches where the iron beds would have been placed and moved, not to mention a few dark stains that could have been dried blood from long ago. It almost gave me chills- so fascinating!

View from library out to gardens:

More library, from the other side of the room:

The organ in the library:

Caged philosophy books:

After walking the length of the library, you exit and walk through a breezeway over to the chapel.

Statue in the chapel:

Chapel:

View from upstairs in the foyer, because I had to go through the Palace a second time!

Following a second tour around the Palace, just in case I missed anything, I collected my bike and rode through the town of Woodstock. It sits nestled in the shadow of the grand palace, and probably gets its name because yeah:

They are stocks, and they are made of wood…But Wikipedia disagrees! Since the town was established before the 1300s, it says that the name Woodstock came from the words for "clearing in the wood" (wodestock).

This town was apparently the birthplace of Edward, the Black Prince, in 1330. 

It is also smaller and cozier here than Oxford, without so much to-do with the University. So it has a really nice, calm atmosphere. I want to go back at some point. It also has the Museum of Oxfordshire which I didn't have time to see, so there is another reason to go back. 


I have a deep respect and fondness for a town with cool alleys (Fredericksburg VA excels at this). But so does Woodstock! Such cool old little stone buildings and alleyways galore, I could get lost roaming around this tiny town for hours. 

Literary nerd moment:

The church and a building covered in vines, bid me adieu on my way out: 

 All in all, a nice time at Blenheim and Woodstock. Heartily recommend. Adios!