I had traveled to Krakow, Poland for business. Before getting dressed the first morning, I called the front desk to see if they had an iron. The clerk told me in broken English she would have one sent to my room if she could find one. There was a knock at my door ten minutes later. When I opened the door, a bellman was holding a plate with a knife and fork, and a single, peeled baseball-sized onion. If you’re Polish, I guess when an American says “iron,” it sounds like “onion.” By the time I finished dressing, the whole room smelled like onions. Do they really think that’s what Americans eat for breakfast? For the entire trip, I wore wrinkled clothes.

-- Thomas M., Manchester UK