As I face my future after Oxford — returning to the States and figuring out next steps from there — I’ve been thinking about tipping culture.
Recently, I had a conversation with an Uber driver in London about the differences between the UK and U.S., and we spoke about how UK food establishments usually have a comparatively minimal automatic service charge added (I’ve usually experienced ten percent), and thus gratuity for service isn’t a primary expectation. Workers are already receiving the minimum wage. In the U.S., tipping is a major social rule, as workers often rely on tips to make a living wage. At home, I’ve experienced tips that automatically start at eighteen percent, with the highest being twenty-five percent of your total order.
Whenever I choose the lowest option, I feel guilty, like I’m a bad person for not choosing a higher amount. Whenever I choose the highest option — I’ve clicked twenty-five percent in a few cases — I also feel guilty, like I’m being careless with my limited amount of money. I don’t think there’s a clear catch-all answer to this kind of dilemma. The easiest answer is to tip according to the service you received in conjunction with what is financially feasible for you, but even that is subject to your unique circumstances. Still, the conversation made me realise that I haven’t thought about gratuities and what makes a “good” gratuity for a meal experience in a long time. It’s almost as if I’ll have to relearn being American.
Then I took a look back at some of my old columns and it struck me just how much else has changed about myself since then, and yet how much has stayed the same. I still eat alone most of the time. The visiting student that I befriended and bonded with over bubble tea returned to her home university after Michaelmas term, but I continue going to Spring Tea on Cowley Road, just by myself. For me, mealtimes are always a priority even when there’s so much work to be done; my Oxford week of eats hasn’t changed much, except lately I’ve been getting more and more of Hussain’s Kebabs, delicious and convenient, and bringing my shawarma wraps back to my room. Of course, I still like watching movies and YouTube while eating.
I’ve gotten more Blank Street matcha lattes in London than I can count, and was nostalgic about the times I spent in the city as a pure tourist. I haven’t been back to that viral London restaurant that turned me down, but it’s on my list. I’ll miss the Chinese restaurants I was a regular at in Oxford. I finally had my first sticky toffee pudding (nice sponge texture but the toffee sauce was too sweet for my taste), consistent with the trend of me trying British classics as an American. I’ll forever tell others about the merits of a Greggs sausage roll.
One thing my time at Oxford has taught me is that living in a place, truly being a resident there, is different from being a tourist. Pursuing a master’s degree at Oxford is an incredibly privileged way of learning that lesson, but it’s a lesson I needed to learn nonetheless. I don’t regret coming here at all and I think I’m a much better person for it. Nevertheless, I don’t think it’s terrible to admit that one of the main memories I’ll have from my Oxford year is the sheer amount of stress I and I’m sure my peers have experienced. The beautiful spires I saw as a tourist with rose-colored glasses will be an afterthought.
Much of that stress I attribute to myself — I really didn’t need to skim all of the recommended readings every week. I should have said no to things early on before I set a precedent. At the start of my time here, I shouldn’t have pressured myself to try and befriend everyone I met at events and dinners and in common rooms at the risk of sacrificing my own identity. Not everyone can be your people; not everyone should be.
Sometimes I wish I could have told the Valerie that came to Oxford just around eight months ago with so many hopes and dreams that you shouldn’t try and be someone you’re not. I know it sounds cliché, but I don’t think I fully realised that I was trying so hard to be excitable and up for anything because I thought that was what the Oxford experience necessitated. I found myself falling into a familiar kind of toxicity that had characterised a period in my undergraduate years, where I was trying to force a certain experience. It was one that made me feel like I needed to compromise on certain core aspects of my identity in relationships where my effort and energy weren’t reciprocated.
Along the way, I realised the need to divorce yourself from situations where you sense a lack of understanding or respect of you as a person. More exposure doesn’t necessarily equate to more comfort. Instead, it can have the opposite cyclical effect, where your self-confidence sinks to rock bottom because of how other people perceive your own lack of confidence and use that to treat you differently. Just as I can identify sociological theories more now because of coursework, I can identify social situations that are veering towards similar patterns. It’s like studying. The more you read and review the material, the more you understand.
There are times where I reflect back on my Oxford experience more and laugh at the old Valerie, so desperate to make Oxford hers and come out of the degree thriving with her future lined up for her, armed with a whole new large group of best friends for life. I don’t think a one-year master’s degree is enough for a complete life change, and the old Valerie wasn’t too realistic about that.
Like the Valerie that existed before coming to Oxford, I’m still getting job rejections in my inbox — although, and just shooting my shot here, if anyone reading is hiring for roles that require writing, editing, or any sort of communications and communications-adjacent toolkit, I’d be a good fit! I’m still not someone who makes friends easily. Oxford wasn’t a panacea for my problems, although the old me might have thought it would be. Instead, Oxford affirmed for me the need to identify my problems and to address them. For that, I’m very much grateful. I’m more cognisant of my own flaws now. I’m more aware of who I am in relation to compatibility with others, and my time here at Oxford has taught me my own value even as I felt it being implicitly questioned by those I encountered and by myself.
I had a funny thought recently while I was trying to frame my Oxford experience to friends and relatives who would inevitably ask about it. In true “Risk Appetite” fashion, I’ll connect it back to food. Maybe Oxford is like a dining hall or a restaurant that I’ll only go to once. It’s beautiful and historical. It’s revered. There are many courses on the menu. You’ll be served all of them, even if there are a select few that you’re not particularly a fan of.
Some of the ingredients you just know already don’t work for you: mushrooms, pumpkin, efforts to contribute your personal thoughts in class failing and leaving you feeling like you’re behind all of your peers and that maybe you don’t belong here. Harsh feedback on your essays and assessments. But you consume them nonetheless, taking them all in, because it’s a privilege to be here in this space and to dine at such a fantastic institution. There are a few palate cleansers during the meal that wash away the sour parts: conversations with new friends, local discoveries like the literary garden, a satisfying lemon sorbet. All the courses add up to something, and by the time dessert comes, you know your meal is coming to an end. It’s bittersweet.
Then the waiter comes by. Is there anything else they can get for you?
You think about it. There are other things you’d love, but this dining hall, this restaurant, can’t provide them for you.
No, you say. But you’re not sure how to express just how much this meal has meant to you, how much of a lasting impact it’ll have even after you leave. You decide to write about it instead. You write a column where you flesh out all the complex feelings you have about this meal’s many courses and the overall dining experience but, also, how much it has shaped you for the better. That’s a gratuity in and of itself, you think. You’ve given it your all while also being honest about what you can provide. Then you say goodbye.