I left Turku the next morning. The train hummed quietly toward Tampere, Finland’s second largest city. There was something soothing about the motion, the passing forests and lakes sliding by like breath. I felt calm, distant, anonymous. Just another traveler among many. No one knew me. No one asked. And that was a kind of freedom.
Tampere welcomed me with sunshine and a wide, elegant skyline. After wandering through a few streets, I stumbled upon Dream Hostel—a place with a name that seemed both cliché and comforting. I stepped inside to ask about the price. A little higher than I’d usually pay, but still within reach. The space was new, sleek, almost like a boutique hotel with polished wood, minimal furniture, white linens, and designer lamps glowing like soft moons. It lacked privacy—no curtains, no separation—but everything else felt elevated. It wasn’t like the hostels I’d known before. It felt grown-up.
I left my things and headed out, this time without a camera, without a phone. I wanted to see the city with my skin and my eyes—not behind a screen. I walked freely, without agenda, letting the streets pull me wherever they wanted. People here looked different. More fashionable. Polished. Confident in their posture and clean in their silence. There was an air of quiet class, a softness in the way Tampere carried itself.
At some point, I bought a sealed water bottle, thinking I’d bring it back to the hostel. But soon I wandered into a terrace bar—there was some kind of local festival happening. The kind where people spill onto sidewalks and music drifts from speakers hidden behind trees. I ordered a large drink from the bar and found myself a seat.
Then, within seconds, a waitress stormed toward me. Her tone was sharp, abrupt.
“You can’t bring your own drink here,” she barked.
I was caught off guard. I held up the glass I had just paid for, explained that I was drinking the bar’s drink, not the water bottle. I had nothing to hide—no bag, no coat, nothing. But she didn’t listen. She continued shouting, repeating herself as if I hadn’t understood the first time. I tried to clarify, told her the hostel was nearby, told her I had no place to “hide” the bottle, as she insisted I should do.
Finally, I placed the bottle gently on the empty chair beside me, trying not to escalate anything. But inside, something shifted.
What kind of hospitality was this?
Yes, of course, it’s common knowledge you can’t bring your own drinks to a restaurant. I understood that. But this wasn’t a café at rush hour. It was a half-full terrace during a public festival. And more than the rule itself, it was the way she handled it—the lack of grace, the absence of understanding.
In Italy, I’ve sat at cafés with my water bottle plainly in view. No one said anything. They knew I wasn’t there to drink my own bottle—I was a paying customer, and often, I brought my friends back later. One café even used to keep my bottle on their counter while I ordered food and drinks for everyone. That’s what trust does. That’s what hospitality can look like.
This wasn’t about money. This was about tone. About respect. About understanding the difference between a guest and a threat.
And I thought of something else—an old memory from when I once worked in service. I had made a mistake while ringing up a drink, undercharging by 50 cents. I was ready to pay the difference out of pocket, but my boss had stopped me. He said, “No. Let it go. Never argue over 50 cents. You don’t lose customers over cents. You lose them over disrespect.”
He was right.
Back then, I didn’t think much of it. But now, on a summer evening in a lovely city I had just begun to like, I understood the full weight of his words.
Because I was that customer now. A tourist, a guest, a wandering soul looking for warmth. And all I left with was a bitter aftertaste and a question:
Why do some places still forget that hospitality isn’t about rules—
it’s about how those rules are spoken?
