Some countries export cars. Some export fashion. America, however, has chosen to export something far more powerful, more mysterious, more capable of dividing families than pineapple on pizza: tipping. Yes, the little ritual once limited to waiters and bellhops has now become a planetary hobby—thanks mostly to Americans traveling abroad and throwing money around like they’re auditioning for a generosity-themed reality show.
Traditionally, tipping was a simple act. You enjoyed your meal, thanked your server, and left a few dollars to say, “You refilled my Coke seventeen times. I see you.” But somewhere around 2015, tipping in the U.S. mutated like a Marvel character exposed to gamma radiation. Suddenly, everyone wanted a tip: baristas, Uber drivers, dog groomers, smoothie stations, the mechanic, the mattress store delivery guys, the person who hands you a muffin, and—most bewilderingly—a self-checkout kiosk. Nothing says “modern capitalism” like a touchscreen asking, “Would you like to tip 25% for the privilege of bagging your own groceries?”
Armed with this deeply ingrained habit, Americans started traveling abroad. And that’s where the real chaos began.
Imagine a peaceful, centuries-old pub in rural England where tipping was once as rare as sunshine. A local orders a pint, pays the exact amount, and calmly walks away. Then an American shows up. He hands the bartender a ten-pound note and says with pride, “Keep the change, mate!” The bartender looks at him as if he’s just tried to buy the Queen. And thus begins the slow, creeping spread of the tipping phenomenon.
In Japan—where tipping is traditionally considered mildly insulting—waiters now occasionally chase after stunned Americans holding cash, begging them to take it back. But after years of tourism, even some Japanese cafés have reluctantly added tip jars. They’re usually labeled “Optional!” or “No pressure!” or “We don’t know why this is here!” Still, Americans march up and toss in coins like they’re feeding koi fish.
Meanwhile, in France—the land of unions, worker protections, and unshakeable confidence—tipping was once a modest rounding-up exercise. Now, Parisian cafés with American tourists regularly post signs such as “Service Included (Really Included)” and “Tips Are Nice but Not Required (We Mean It).” Yet the Americans persist, convinced that leaving 20% is the only thing preventing the waiter from keying their rental car.
Technology hasn’t helped. Those little tablet screens with preloaded tip percentages—designed in Silicon Valley—have traveled globally like missionary devices. You try to buy a croissant in Portugal? The screen spins around dramatically, presenting you with a choice between 15%, 20%, and “Are you sure you’re not a bad person?” Europeans stare at it in confusion. Americans instinctively press the biggest number.
And the workers? Many are baffled but also pleasantly surprised. A barista in Amsterdam recently admitted, “I don’t understand the tipping thing, but the Americans can keep doing it.”
In the end, the tipping phenomenon is America’s quirkiest cultural export. Not democracy. Not jazz. Not Hollywood. No—America has taught the world to feel nervous while paying for things.
And if that isn’t globalization, what is?