Sitting in Copley Square, taking advantage of the Boston Public Library's complimentary wireless. I seem to have essentially recovered and am enjoying some light convalescence in the sun (and unfortunately, the wind). I am currently eyeing off a nearby hot dog vendor's wares. I think he and I could reach some sort of mutually beneficial arrangement.
America has a couple of issues that are causing me ongoing frustration, and nothing fixes problems like complaining about it on the internet.
I experienced the first problem in Canada, and thought it was some quaint local custom, but alas, no. Nobody will tell you how much things cost. Doesn't matter is it's a meal, a game, a t-shirt, there's the price displayed prominently on the menu/sticker/whatever, and then they just whack some arbitrary amount of tax on top of it once you decide to buy it. So suddenly $29.99 becomes $31.87. It's not a big difference, but it's something easily remedied: include the applicable taxes in the advertised price. Magic.
I speak English. I speak quite good English, almost like I was born to it. So why is it when I order some food and say "no pickle, thanks" I have to repeat myself three times? Side note: it doesn't matter what food you're ordering, it comes with at least some pickle. Is it my indecipherable Australian accent, or staggered disbelief that I might not want a half kilo pickle sitting on my plate while I try to eat?
Damn, it seems it was a lunchtime hot dog stall. Now I must look elsewhere. One of the lesser known perils of blogging, I guess.
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