Warning to animal lovers: some graphic images of a bullfight are included. 

1995. Car packed with shiny white girls feeling thug, rapping out the window to EZ-E. We turn low onto the gravel drive at dusk and park at an angle next to the big wheels of big trucks. It's summer and we've got time tonight and forever. Here because my beautiful friend has confidence, a car and a boyfriend who lives in this house which is open to us. 

He is the latest in a string of boyfriends that stretches back to the beginning of her existence. Late at night, while I and most other girls are sleeping, she is busy with important transactions on her cordless phone, exchanging boyfriends. We, her friends, appreciate the spoils of her conquests; tonight she's gotten us access. In the house beyond the big trucks is a collection of the coolest boys, most of whom we've never talked to, none as beautiful as hers but close. 

We will be Hanging Out. 

Stepping into the house we're surprised by the presence of people less shiny than us: parents. Even more shocked because they are having a good time. In the evening's offerings we take only youth.  The beer and the smokes and the real fun are theirs. But, they might share for a small reflection of their younger selves in us, all scrubbed clean and looking for trouble. 

Our expectations of the evening had been wrong. Houses in which to Hang Out are not supposed to be occupied by their owners. They are supposed to be like large hotel rooms, free, impersonal, existing solely for our needs, and we don't need reminders that lives are being lived here. Teenagers don't need cooking smells and coat racks. We need a tile foyer to play indoor hacky sack, as many couches as possible and decks. Everything important happens on decks. 

In the middle of the full den we have a cackling mother who so resembles her beautiful son that his face loses its identity. It's now obvious that his usual sexy smirk is merely the bud of this fully mature, maternal guffaw. The men on the sofas, spongy cozies between their fingers and their beers, seem to be made of the same materials as their dusty boots and faded jeans. They wear the same baseball caps as our cool boys but theirs fit more snugly, and from behind you wouldn't see soft smooth necks that you want to run your thumb over, but greased hair bent from habit. 

The jostling molecules in the air tell us that the room is happy that we're here. The mother and the sons and the beercan-men and the sofas and the roaring television all welcome us. We form a line of cutoff shorts to pluck our own beers from the cooler. Sorry, but they've run out of cozies. 

"Mom, we're going to play pool." 

Eyes watch us as we file to the back of the house. This feels familiar, like a slumber party, the noises of adults in the next room, the kids in the other. We hadn't wanted to be children this evening, but it's still comforting, and a relief after the brief prospect of having to find a seat on the sofas next to faded-jeans-faces. 

Boys shoot pool with the coolest of the girls, the ones who know how to flirt. The rest of us, minor players, take our places on the periphery, arms folded, watching the action. Just being a spectator is exhilarating. Proximity. Possibility. This is the essence of Hanging Out. Boys tease inexpertly. Girls smile and shrug. We sip our beers until they're warm. 

Noises in the den shift and adults make their way down the carpeted corridor to us. It's clear that the room with the pool table is the boy's territory. There's a poster on the wall with a blonde in high heels and a string bikini crouched down against a black backdrop. In another one a woman on a beach walks away from the camera, looking over her shoulder, her fluorescent thong wedged firmly between sandy cheeks. These posters look completely normal being stared at by our boys. It seems like the natural order of things, or a mysterious mathematical proof that dictates that these boys will wear baggy jeans and canvas Vans and striped Stussy shirts, and that they will look at posters of improbably naked women who oversee pool tables. 

"Hey there kids! Ready for some real competition!" Boy's mother still cackles. 

One of the men with a mustache so sun-bleached it looks like it's permanently dipped in beer froth has been charged with carrying a cooler. "Another round ladies?" 

Balancing the damp cooler on his knee he slides open its white plastic top. The slumber party motif no longer works. Their party leaks into our party, and in an instant The Hang Out dissolves. Now we're just standing around the pool table, an invaded territory. To avoid these new circumstances I stand in a corner, which happens to be right next to the crouching blonde in heels. I cross my arms tighter in a prayer for invisibility and it works perfectly until it doesn't. 

An older man walks over to my corner and silently contemplates the poster like it was a painting by Matisse. He glances over at me as if to check to see if in my youth I could possibly understand this unique genius. His expression is so convincing I turn toward the poster and take a deep look. Yes, those are very shiny red patent leather heels. They are the exact same red as her mouth, which is just as slick as her heels. The whole image is slippery. The black and the red and the oil remind me of the old Robert Palmer video with the row of simply irresistible guitar playing women. 

I'm not sure what the man wants me to say. I smile, meaning, leave me alone. 

He takes a sip of beer and in a most fatherly, good-natured voice, declares, "I bet you have straight pubic hair." 

In a jumbled second folded in on itself, I…

plummet into mute mortification
look closer at the model in the poster in a plea for help
scan the room to see if anyone else heard the declaration
wonder how it's possible that such a sentence could be conceived, manufactured and lobbed like a weapon
then finally crawl out of the silence and say
"No!" meaning, leave me alone, get me out of here, onto the gravel driveway, into the car and back into my own home away from this wrong house

"Yeah, you probably don't know yet." He laughs a smoker's laugh and backs away from me in my red fury. 

I have the sudden gagging realization that with a flick of imagination we are the women in the posters. One minute we're standing here flesh and blood, clothed, and the next, our faces are affixed to the slick bodies on the beach, and there's not a damn thing we can do about it.

Beer-can man can bore right through to any layer he chooses and then remind us of this power. If he has it then the cool boys have it, and I am naked all the time. The prayer for invisibility gets louder and louder, arms cross tighter and tighter. I want to recede forever behind my long straight (straight!) hair, and for the most part I succeed, like a baby playing peek-a-boo, behind the dark shield the world does not exist. 

Later, headlights on the gravel, another friend in the backseat pukes quietly into a newly borrowed letter jacket. 

On rainy days, Venice reminds me of Millais's Ophelia, her long dress and hair billowing in the deathly waters, seeming to buoy her up before dragging her below. As the river takes her, her face and hands rest just above the water line, in a pose both saintly and sensuous, so that she seems at once oblivious and acquiescent to her fate. The scene is so rich with green life you can almost smell the natural rot of weeds and mud and feel the cold water on the back of your own neck. 

It's the rain and the tides which flood into the Piazza San Marco like Ophelia's drowning waters, soaking the city's shifting foundations like her dress. 

One moment, the sky is gray, the wide square bustling with tourists with tripods. Chairs are tucked in neatly at cafe tables where tuxedoed musicians squeeze out bittersweet melodies to make one forget the exorbitant prices paid for the ambience. The next moment, with what seems like merely a splash of rain, the image of the Basilica is now reflected in water that comes up to one's shins. The north side of the square seems to be filling up more quickly, but the scene is so unlikely it feels like the ground could begin to tilt the other way. 

We run from the center like billiard balls sliding into the pockets of the stone archways. Suddenly the smart tourists have shod themselves with colorful plastic overshoes and rain ponchos and are splashing and stomping in the square where gentlemen once strode with walking canes and top hats. Ducks float where Venetian Doges in long robes must also have glided. Thin wooden planks on stilts appear as if by magic, and those of us who forgot our overshoes clamor aboard and shuffle slowly in a long, sad line of umbrellas and soaked paper shopping bags. 

Soon the waters should permanently recede. The Commune of Venice has almost completed a massive flood barrier project that should keep the high waters at bay. Ophelia will wake from her reverie and drag herself to dry land, subverting fate.

When the high waters no longer eat away at her foundations, will Venice live? Are her history and beauty grand enough to survive the daily crush of tourists stepping on her bones. Does she welcome us, the watchers and gawkers or does she fight back with fetid, reeking canals and moldy black steps? 

On a gondola ride down one of those slim waterways between palazzos' ancient front doors, we see a woman in high heels lying on her side, draped on a set of stairs leading directly into the water. Two men lean over her. As we glide by we look closer at the odd figures and see that her ankles are twisted grotesquely and bright red blood pools on one of the steps. A street vendor and a policeman comfort her, and soon we hear the splash and wailing siren of a water ambulance coming for her. Had the waters beckoned her? What had lead her down those stairs to nowhere? 

"Watch out for the black steps," the gondolier warns. 

Each day, we look out on the lagoon and its choppy waters. Its tethered gondolas bob, and its gray-pink domes melt into a pastel sky. Then, a massive cruise ship appears like a sideways Vegas hotel being pulled slowly to port in order to disgorge its tourists for the afternoon. The huge form blots out the modest lines of the lagoon like a watercolor being held in the rain. 

With so little time, the tourists are in a frenzy, and they run greedy through the city, piling into gondolas even though they can barely see out from underneath their competing umbrellas. The gondoliers might be the only Venetians they meet. 

This is not surprising considering there are only 60,000 permanent residents in the city of Venice and millions of tourists per year. We utterly eclipse the contemporary life of the city even as we do our part to keep its history alive, just like the gigantic cruise ship in the lagoon.  What must modern Venetians think of us taking up so much space in their small, but magnificent city?

Personally, as tourists we vow to step lightly and try our best to fit in. We will not wear ponchos. We will try to a speak a little Italian. We will not clog pathways in order to set up the perfect shot of the bridge. We will walk reverently. 

And these particular pilgrims are hungry. The restaurant is down a narrow street, and yes, they have room for two. We pass a grand front room that embodies the fading opulence of many Venice establishments.  A small dog snarls from underneath a table covered with a tasseled cloth. We follow the host out a door, through an alley, past another anteroom where a shimmering display of fish, vegetables and fruit bulges, and into a back room, which is packed full of garrulous, poncho-ed tourists. 

It is plain that there is a room for regulars, who will eat gazing at the beautiful display of fish and produce, and a room for the rest of us. The host had not asked, "Would you like to sit in the Tourist or Non-Tourist room?" 

So, we take matters into our own hands: "Do you mind if we sit in the first room?" The host genially fills our request and we back away from our quarantined peers. We are seated directly in front of the figs, which we notice are being slowly picked off by a well-dressed woman in her later years who walks by the display half a dozen times in order to swipe the delicious fruit.

Next to our table, an Italian man dines by himself, and we watch as he spoils himself on this rainy weekday with fine wines, an appetizer, a pasta course, a fish course, dessert and a digestive. It's a thing of beauty. We follow his lead, and by the end of the meal, the waiters smile at us, seemingly impressed at our gluttony. See? We tell ourselves. It's possible to pretend, just for a moment, that we're not visitors. 

Later that night, confident that we can create that magic again, we make our way to another restaurant for dinner. 
The place glows .With the candlelight, heavy tapestries and red upholstery on the banquettes, we feel like we are looking at the world from within a bottle of wine. It's cozy and packed. We're led to a small table for two, in a row of other dining couples. On one side is an American couple, both rosy-tipsy and giddy; on the other, another American couple, both angry-tipsy and annoyed that their food hasn't arrived. 

As our eyes and ears adjust to the din and the low light, we realize that the room is populated exclusively by Americans and that a large-scale, pan-table conversation is taking place. Travel itineraries, restaurant recommendations and anniversary stories are being swapped over our heads. 

"Next we're going to Rome!" the woman at one table shouts to a man at the other side of the room.

"We're from Nebraska," a young man leans back in his chair to communicate with a gentleman sitting three tables down. 

A woman notices me following the bouncing conversation and asks, "Where are y'all from?" It's jarring, this camaraderie. It feels very much like a school cafeteria, rather than a romantic Venetian restaurant. We huddle in, and I try to ignore my compatriots. 

Later I make my way to the ladies' room in another part of the restaurant and glance around and notice that quiet Italian is being spoken discretely at tables, where couples look into each other's eyes, and realize, we had forgotten to ask for the Non-Tourist room. We can't separate ourselves from the rest of the flood. We're the same, in search of an authentic Venice, which struggles against the weight of us. At least she has history on her side, and science. The high waters will recede and she'll stay strong, and those who love and know her will buoy her up, preserving her culture. 

On a recent trip to Paris we brought our friends, an American couple, to one of my husband's old haunts, Harry's New York Bar on Rue Daunou in the middle of the afternoon. 

We swung open its kitschy saloon-style doors and left the bright day behind us at a completely inappropriate hour. 

The bar is covered with Americana—license plates, college banners, decals—and other ephemera, evidence of its long history as a favorite watering hole of expatriates, including the patron saint of all expats, Ernest Hemingway. 

The place was empty except for one lone man who looked a bit like Ernest's daytime ghost, sitting in front of the bartender who was silently wiping down glasses. It was far too early for the stampede of tourists who make a nightly pilgrimage here. 

We knew we had to try the bar's speciality, the whiskey sour, but made a good show of hesitation. It really is a bit early, no? Maybe I'll just have a mint tea. Or a mimosa. But our friends found an excuse for us all: jet lag! We didn't bother to remind them that, coming from London, we weren't suffering from jet lag, and no one did the math to determine that it was more like morning for them. Rise and shine and taste that bittersweet Bourbon cocktail. 

It's easy to make friends with strangers in a dark bar in the middle of the day. Ernest's ghost was, of course, a young expat writer with a respectable amount of facial scruff and clothes one might wear when painting. But, anachronistically, he scrolled through emails on his BlackBerry and was himself trying to forget a case of jet lag from a flight from Los Angeles. Would a modern Ernest be a burgeoning screenwriter? 

We toasted and noticed that another day drinker had crept by us and now sat at the other end of the bar sipping something out of a martini glass. As he slowly drank he slid imperceptibly from barstool to barstool and finally sat next to us, actively listening. Eventually, without preamble, he joined the discussion. As he talked he occasionally drew out an electronic cigarette from the breast pocket of his navy blazer like it was a fine writing instrument and took discreet puffs, blowing odorless smoke from his nostrils. 

Another Parisian gentleman, casually chic and confident in his charm, made a bold entrance and immediately introduced himself, shaking the men's hands and kissing the ladies', a gesture which I am convinced was designed for men to easily determine a woman's marital status. (I'm still not sure if the fact of a wedding ring makes a woman more or less a target for a Parisian man.) He tossed back a drink like he had just come from a punishingly boring, sober business lunch.  

Between the seven of us, multiple threads of conversation spun out and broke off and interwove, and though we were the only patrons, the space felt fully occupied by our presence, getting thicker and louder as we talked. The effects of a cocktail so mimic the warm, radiating pulse of the feeling of friendship that strangers have been benefiting from this shortcut to intimacy for ages. Sometimes the moment is an entry into something true, other times it's just a flash, a good cheat, a trick to turn everyday life inside out by gold joy sipped and shared. Travelers, expats and businessmen bond, fuzzy plans are hatched; yes, next Thursday we'll meet again. This round's on me. To Hemingway! 

We talked about books and bars and Paris. Recommendations for restaurants and advice on life were given. There's a sloppy beauty to the nonsense distributed. A few choice pieces from our afternoon sojourn: 

Travel Advice from Bar Philosopher I: "The jet lag and fatigue of an overnight, trans-Atlantic flight can be bypassed entirely by heading straight to the bar upon arrival. With a good buzz, sleep is unnecessary." 

Health Advice from Bar Philosopher II: "If you smoke fewer than five cigarettes a day, you will live a long and healthy life. A famous heart surgeon confirmed this to me." 

Fitness Advice from Bar Philosopher III: "You may eat as much and drink as much as you like, as long as you don't snack between meals and take the subway rather than drive. My obese American friend came to Paris for three weeks and lost 10 kilos this way." 

Did they believe their own advice? Perhaps. Certainly in the dark gleam of Harry's Bar, after convivial drinks, it's easier to. Anything is possible. Ernest's ghost walks. Friends can be made in an instant. A Paris scene retains its allure even when the tableau contains e-cigarettes and smart phones. 

Every day at lunchtime the smiling redhead who works at the shop next door comes in for soup. She loves asking what the soup of the day is and her face lights up when she is passed her steaming bowl. One day the electric soup warmer blows a fuse. There is no soup. When told, the woman regresses thirty-five years. Her lip quivers, her eyes well. She stomps her feet, shouts and slams the door behind her. The next day she arrives and asks, beaming again, "What's the soup of the day?"

Those working in customer service will inevitably witness this perplexing performance: the adult tantrum. 

If you work in a restaurant, it's a regular occurrence (perhaps hunger strips decades from our maturity). It might be a rarer sight in other industries, but we should still be prepared for it, just like the parent who knows her sweet baby will one day hit the terrible twos and is wise to have her tips, tricks and techniques at the ready for when disaster eventually strikes in the middle of the grocery store. 

In the grand scheme of things, we have it easy in libraries. Our customers aren't completely "customers"; they are patrons of an institution, while we, the library staff, are the stewards of that institution's collections, so a sense of community imbues interactions more often than not. Ninety-nine percent of the time, patrons are gracious. And, most of us, having entered into the profession in order to, at least in part, help people, love doing just that. 

Oh, but that one percent. 

Thankfully many librarians are practically patron-whisperers. Their sheer presence is enough to pacify the most irate individual. I've had several bosses and colleagues with this magical power, and watching their diplomacy, goodwill and patience in action was like taking a master class in patron service. 

It's a tricky business though, because we must strike an extremely delicate balance between providing service and enforcing rules. We must be welcoming and helpful while protecting the collection and the greater good of the library. We must smile while we shush. Ask if there's anything we can help with while confiscating your open beer bottle. 

Our techniques for handling the odd tantrum must be honed for this very particular dynamic. From an institutional perspective it helps to hire people-whisperers, those blessed with poise and imperturbability (for example, the American Midwest is a hotbed of such individuals), right off the bat. But, even if someone's not so naturally gifted, we can still learn how to diffuse challenging service situations. 

But first, certain conditions should be in place at the library. 

At one of my first library jobs, a patron, frustrated at having to produce his student ID in order to enter the library, threw his card in the face of the student staff member who was manning the entrance. The staff member was stunned silent. My boss watched this interaction, strolled over, and with a voice as soothing as warm honey, explained to the card-flinging student that this was his first and last warning and if he ever abused a library staff member again, he would lose his library privileges for life. 

My boss's calm demeanor, coupled with firmness, took the student from recalcitrance to contrition in five seconds. Of course, he was one of those bosses with special powers. But, for the staff, just knowing that he supported us was enough to give us confidence in our ability to handle such interactions. We felt protected by the institution to do our jobs. 

Along the same lines, drawing boundaries helps. At another library we developed a Patron Code of Conduct, providing clear guidelines on proper behavior, just in case. It was rarely used, but it helped staff know how they should expect to be treated (for example, no cards should be flung at any faces). It gave us peace of mind so that, in the moment, we could manage a difficult patron with steadiness and ease. 

Of course, how we handle those tricky tantrums, outbursts or just plain old naughtiness depends upon the situation, but here's a sampling of techniques: 

"The Empath" - At the circulation desk a patron is yelling because he needs a book for a paper due today. Not tomorrow. TODAY. With empathy (the greatest tool in the arsenal of the customer servant) we feel for the guy, knowing his frustration is probably about something bigger than the unavailable book. We don't have to know what, but we recognize that he's just human, and with a little compassion, we might be able transform his bad attitude. "The Empath" is the perfect antidote to taking things personally. 

"The Silent Treatment" -  Sometimes there's nothing you can do to stop the woman stomping and storming out of the restaurant. We know, as she will probably realize, that her behavior stinks like last week's turnip soup. 

What we would like to say: 

• It's time out for you!
• Go to your room!
• You're going to sit in a corner and think about your behavior!
• You've just lost your soup privileges for a month!

What we're going to say: 

• Nothing.

We're going to throw our reaction right into neutral and let it idle while the tantrum is being thrown. 

"Cloak of Invisibility"- an extension of "The Silent Treatment". Both parties pretend that the outburst never happened. That way the customer can return the next day and ask for the soup specials without embarrassment. 

"Good Cop/Bad Cop" or "Blame the Policy"- A classic. You're just enforcing the policy. It's your boss who is the bad guy (your boss is in on this). If someone is shouting about the library's entrance policy, you can shrug (empathetically), wave a copy of the written rules and refer them to your friendly-but-tough boss. 

"The Information Deluge"- I worked with a staff member who was brilliant at diffusing situations simply by explaining the intricate minutia of the library's policies and procedures. Boredom quickly eclipses anger. 

"The Sneak Attack" - Rather than showing his ID, a man gives the attendant a dirty look, hurdles over the turnstile and sprints into the library. Instead of running after him in a game of inappropriate library flag football, we wait. Eventually he comes to check out a book, and we say, "Sir, your hurdle is impressive, but I'm afraid I have to insist that you show your ID next time." He sheepishly agrees to leave his track workouts outside. 

We're probably all guilty of bad behavior from time to time. Bad moods descend on even the sunniest personalities, and unfortunately, sometimes other people get the brunt of it. Hopefully most of us have left our public tantrums back in our toddlerhood, but we can still find some compassion for the foot-stomping patron. 

In customer service, it can be a challenge to maintain your humor, patience, empathy and faith in humanity. But, if we feel supported by our institutions, if we know that we should expect to be respected, we can stay neutral and not take things too personally. We won't be daunted by the rare tantrum and can enjoy the ninety-nine percent. And keep in mind that the best stories come from the stompers and yellers and hurdlers.