Handed a hand towel
New Delhi, India
I AM EATING lunch in a restaurant in New Delhi, India. The restaurant is beautifully furnished and the food is delicious. The only patrons are foreigners, and tour bus after tour bus pulls up, discharging groups of Europeans. Such a restaurant is way too touristy for me, but our guide steered us here, recipient of a commission for doing so, I am sure.
I get up to use the restroom in the back. There are only two stalls for a long line of waiting women. The attendant, a little short man wearing a uniform of coveralls and sandals, directs the tourists to the next available loo. Every third use, he ducks in the stall. He mops the floors and cleans up. He wipes down splashes around the sink, keeps an eye on the liquid soap supply and hands out paper towels. These towels are really thin and resemble cheap paper table napkins. I dry my hands with the skimpy piece of paper which shreds and sticks to my fingers.
The facilities are spotless. The attendant is hard-working, doing an excellent job. All the tourists are European except me, and no one tips him. I hand him a 100-rupee note and thank him, though I doubt he understands a word I say. I tell him how much I appreciate his efforts, that I am sorry no one but the American tips him. He smiles and pockets the money, the equivalent of a little over a dollar, which is a nice tip for such services in India.
We finish our meal and I make one last bathroom stop before we continue our tour of the city. As I exit the stall, the attendant hands me a starched cloth dinner napkin to dry my hands.
Everyone else gets the flimsy paper towels.