Natalia

Tell us about some kindness you experienced from a stranger while you were on a European trip.<BR><BR>My kind stranger was in Ireland. I was walking along a path beside one of the small roads and lost my footing and fell directly into a ditch! Head first no less. It happened so quickly that I was stunned, even more so when I focused my eyes and saw a dark haired man peering at me. He had stopped his car when he saw my dive and came over to help me. <BR><BR>I was unhurt but was kind of shaked (shooken?) up and he walked me over to a wall and gave me a water bottle, stayed with me until I became myself again, then drove on to his sister's wedding!

nkh

I stayed with family friends in Paris for the 200th anniversary of the French Revolution (1987) and while out watching the evening parades on the 14th I started to feel very faint and ill from crowds/heat/noise and had to sit down pretty much where I was. <BR><BR>A young Scandinavian couple saw me and insisted on helping my friends and I - moving me to somewhere more comfortable, offering me their bottle of water and going to a pharmacy to see if there was anything to help me. All while they were missing the parade that was presumably one of the main points of their holiday. Fortunately I felt better after a few minutes and we could all continue watching.

Thyra

While backpacking I had too many kind stranger encounters to tell all. But the ones that stick out, were the nice French Man in Calais who helped us out when we mistakenly walked all the way to the Ferry terminal believing that the ferry left that afternoon (it didn't leave for 2 days) that gentleman, who bore a striking resemblence to Jaques Cousteau, gave us two starving students lunch, drove us around, let us stay in his guest house for free and drove us to the ferry terminal on the day it did depart... he was a wonderful man, and I never saw him again. Again, in Salzburg our rental car died in the rain, during morning rush hour blocking traffic, the good people of Salzburg rushed over to help my husband push the car out of the way, then a shop keeper, called the company, discussed our problem, gave us money for the train we had to catch, drove us to the station and dealt followed up with having the dead rental picked up.. where ever you are right now lady....I hope you are having the greatest life EVER!!!!

katie12

During our recent trip to Spain, we were constantly amazed at kindness and friendliness of people in the area. Once, late at night we went to town to get something to eat, thinking that we should have no problem finding variety of cafes still open. Well, no such luck and most of establishments were closed for the night (except the gelato stand that wasn't exactly what we wanted anyway). As I imagined my 11 year old looking at me with hungry eyes (&quot;Mommy, do we have anything to eat tonight or should I go sleep hungry?) my husband knocked on the door of bakery that was obviously closed, but some lights were still on. The lady opened the door and we explained (with sign language)that we would like to buy something.. Although they were closed, she went out of her way to give us box of pastries and baguettes and completely refused the money..

elaine

First trip to Europe was to Greece.<BR> I had gone to Greece inspired by a favorite novel, and I was looking for verbena, a flower I'd never seen before at that time.<BR>What I didn't know then was that verbena is a garden plant, one doesn't find it in florist shops.<BR>Anyway, the first florist shop in Athens that I went into, I asked, in English, about verbena.<BR>The shop keeper either had trouble understanding me or he thought I was ignorant, which I was. When he saw the disappointment on my face, he gave me a rose instead. That was my first day in Europe.

Gardyloo

Probably our favorite European travel story – sorry if it runs on a bit; I’ll split it into two or three parts so it posts.<BR><BR>Part 1<BR>We were traveling from Amsterdam to the south of France, via the sleeper train from Brussels to Nice etc. When we got to our compartment in Brussels, the conductor told us that the last supper sitting was about to happen, so if we wanted dinner we should hustle forward to the dining car or else have to live on “snack bar” food or worse till morning. We left everything in the compartment, which he said he would lock.<BR><BR>At dinner we shared a table with a fascinating Canadian man who was working with an international agriculture agency (NGO) headquartered in The Hague. He was traveling to Paris that evening. We were intrigued by his stories – he had worked all over the world and had witnessed things like the fall of Saigon, Tehran during the hostage crisis, things like that. I absentmindedly noticed during dinner that the train had stopped somewhere in western Belgium or eastern France; somewhere out in the middle of nowhere. But then it started again and all was fine.<BR><BR>Dinner lasted through dessert, then coffee, then a brandy, and we were swapping stories and having a fine old time, until the dining car people started ahem-ing rather loudly, so we bid our adieus and we headed back to our compartment.<BR><BR>We didn’t make it all the way. I looked through the little window in the door between the last seating coach and the first sleeper, and saw…tracks, receding into the dusk. Evidently the stop during dinner had been when they’d disconnected the sleeping cars and attached them to a different train, which was now headed south to the Cote d’Azur, while we were standing in the remains of the train that was now barreling toward Paris. Oops.<BR><BR>When I say we left everything in the sleeping compartment, I mean everything – plane tickets, bags, passports, coats, cameras, toothbrushes, everything. My wife, bless her, had taken her handbag to dinner, in it her wallet, in that her credit and cash cards and drivers license, and maybe 100 Belgian Francs and a couple of Guilder. No FF.<BR><BR>We went a-searching for a conductor or anyone in a uniform, and found nobody, except our Canadian dinner companion. We explained what had happened, and he offered to help as best he could, which none of us knew how do define.<BR>

Gardyloo

Part 2<BR>We ended up back in the dining car, where the only person present was the headwaiter, counting and sorting the various banknotes left for tabs and tips. By this point my and my wife’s French had well and truly given out (“Please, how do you say imbecile?”) but our Canadian friend came to the rescue, explained our plight, and the waiter grudgingly agreed to call the conductor, who he knew was up in the locomotive schmoozing with the drivers (at least I hope that was all.) <BR><BR>The conductor arrives, our friend explains, and we receive a world-class series of Gallic shrugs. Can he see our tickets? Geez, no, they’re on the OTHER TRAIN. <BR><BR>Well, you’ll have to wait until we get to Paris, which is now an hour or so away, and maybe someone there can sort you out. I ask (through our new interpreter) what happens if the sleeper train arrives at its terminus (Ventimiglia, just over the Italian border) and nobody’s in our compartment. Well, he said, your stuff is piled on the station platform. Okey-dokey.<BR><BR>We arrive at the station in Paris (Gare de l’Est I think) and it’s late and everything’s shut. The conductor points the 3 of us toward the station manager’s office, shrugs, and vanishes. We march up to the office and our friend talks our way into the office, where we meet the SNCF station manager, a chain-smoking woman in a pixy cut and a black-on-black outfit. Our friend tells our story to her, and (I kid you not) she looks at us, grimaces, and says, “Oo la la..” In my many days and nights in France I have never had this said to me before or since.<BR><BR>The three of us stand there, two of us sheepish, while she goes through a couple more Gauloises. She says something to our Canadian savior, and he tells us he’s been dismissed. He’s now a couple of hours overdue for his hotel (early meeting the next day) so we thank him for the hundredth time and he goes.<BR><BR>The station manager asks us (French, but I’m managing, sort of) if we have any French money. No. Do we have an ATM card? Yes. Okay, you will need around 500F (around $80 at that time), get it from the ATM in the main concourse. Why? You’ll see.<BR><BR>She picks up the phone and barks words, and presently a smallish Algerian or Tunisian man appears. She writes a note on a slip of paper, shows him, and hands it to me. It says “Valentin.” More barking at the guy, then okay, she says, go with him, via the ATM. Bon chance (Gringos.) <BR><BR>I use my wife’s cash card at the ATM, trying with partial success to keep the guy from seeing the PIN. He leads us out into the night (pretty chilly and us with no coats) to his – aha – taxi.<BR><BR>We then roar through the night, up on to the Peripherique, making like a Mirage, out of town to the south. <BR><BR>Half an hour later he pulls off the Autoroute and onto a side road, then another turn and we are on a dirt road, deep in the dark boondocks. My wife is contemplating swallowing her wedding ring at this point. We bump along for a couple of minutes until we come to a lone house with a light on. Our driver goes to the door and knocks on it; a man in an undershirt appears (PO’d possibly?) and indicates no, you idiot, not here. More bumping and we come to another identical building. Another knock, this time the guy’s in a shirt. Yes, this is it. Get out, go in. It is about 2 AM.<BR>

Gardyloo

Part 3 (last)<BR>We gladly fork over the 300F cab fare and add another 100F for not killing us. Off the cab goes, and upstairs we go with the new guy. We emerge into… the war room. On all four walls are enormous computer screens and diagrams of the French railway system for the Paris region, with crawling, blinking lights, numbers on readouts, colored shapes on black. The room is occupied with four or five people sitting at consoles. One console starts making a beeping noise and the attendant pushes a button and the beeping stops. All look up at the big board, where no doubt tragedy has just been averted.<BR><BR>We are told to sit over there and be quiet (except for our teeth chattering, which we could not control) and we do so for half an hour. Then one of the men gets up and motions for us to follow him outside. He grabs an old-fashioned railway lantern, and proceeds to lead us across dozens of sets of railway tracks, waving the lantern as he goes, no doubt so the TGV traveling at 300 kph will have time to stop.<BR><BR>Finally we arrive at a cement pad, where we wait for about two minutes. A train pulls up, slides forward until we are opposite a door in one of the coaches, stops. Our sleeping car conductor looks down on us and says, “Oh there you are.” <BR><BR>A few hours later we raise the curtain and look out on the Mediterranean in the morning sun’s glare, and we start to process how lucky we were to have been befriended, and saved, by two or three strangers. A night to remember, full of kind people.<BR>

KathrynT

Wow Gardyloo,<BR><BR>What a story!

Thyra

My thoughts exactly.. wow!!! Amazing, I am emailing that to my husband!!!

Cherie

My story happened over 30 years ago, when I was eighteen, but I'll never forget it. I was traveling alone and had just arrived in Charing Cross Station in London, having taken the train and ferry from France. I had no idea that different stations in London would have different services, so I got off at the first stop in London. It was evening, and the money-changing windows were all closed. Needless to say, I had no British pounds, and (naively) no reservations for a place to stay. I went out into the street, hoping to find an Amex office, someplace to change money, even a policeman. Need I say that I found none? Finally, I stopped in front of a Citibank, trying to get my wits about me and dissolving into tears. A young man, just finishing work for the day at Citibank, came out, saw me, and asked if he could help. I blubbered my story and he quickly came up with a plan of action. He went back into the lobby and called the Tourist Office for me, to get them looking for a place for me to stay. He changed my francs to pounds out of his own pocket, but not having enough to cover a taxi, he came up with another plan. His wife picked him up from work and they drove me all the way to the other side of town, to Victoria Station (where I should have gone in the first place) where I could change my money, call the Tourist Office back, and get a taxi. They even showed me all the tourist sights on the way across town. This was my first experience of London, and have loved it ever since. The kindness of strangers can be a wondrous thing.

emjoy

On our first attempt at driving in England we drove from Heathrow up to Stratford Upon Avon-the motorway was no problem but the tiny roads which seemed to my American brain like much bigger roads from the maps were throwing us for a loop. The roundabouts confused us and we were very stressed, particularly after hitting the side mirror of a car which was unbelievably stopped on the A road and backing up in the lane to make a turn it had missed. By the time we pulled into town and stopped at a pay phone to try to find a place to stay we were incredibly tense. My first time using the payphones caused me to loose the connection to a B&amp;B I called at least 3 times before I found enough change. While driving to the B&amp;B based on the owners directions we got lost and had to call her from a pay phone two more times. We should have seemed like complete idiots to her but instead she kindly offered to go out onto her front lawn and wave at us, she'd be wearing a blue jumper. So we got in the car and literally 1/4 block drive from the payphone (and embarrassingly within plain site) we saw a lovely woman in a blue jumper jumping up and down flailing her arms wildly. We parked and dragged our luggage in and fumbled for our money etc. when she told us to go on up to our rooms and have a nap and a cuppa tea because we looked a bit ragged. We fell asleep and went down several hours later realizing we hadn't even given her our name. But she was perfectly welcoming and made reservations for us at her favorite restaurant.<BR>We had a wonderful stay and have since been back to stay with her and her mother (The Hollies Guest House in Stratford on Evesham and Chestnut) many times-and by now have the driving sussed.

Natalia

Gardyloo, wow! I love these all! <BR>

Amy

These are from a long time ago, but all the angst about travel now reminds me of my trip to Russia in 84 (Evil Empire days) when most of our friends were prophesying doom.<BR><BR>One time, I was looking for a flower shop. A babushka got involved and was giving me directions with vehement hand gestures, but after she realized that I was still really, really lost she took me by the arm and, still talking nineteen to the dozen, walked me there. <BR><BR>The next event was when our bus driver (with a lovely dimpled smile) realizing we were obviously on the wrong bus since it was the end of the line and a sailor's dorm, drove us to a place where we could get a cab. <BR><BR>There are so many other times and places; perhaps I'm an optimist, but I do believe that most people are good!

cruelbee

At the end of a river cruise, in the south of France, our tour company put us on one of their busses to drive us to the train station in Nice to meet friends and continue our trip, part of the &quot;transfer package&quot;.<BR><BR>Something went wrong and the bus stopped by a beach near Cannes and everyone got off for a day on the beach. We talked to the bus driver in halting French and we were then told the tour group had put us on the wrong bus. The driver unlocked the baggage area got our bags which were in the back, of course, and gave them to us. <BR><BR>We sat on our luggage not knowing what to do next, women in topless bikinis, men in speedos were all passing us by, and we really felt out of place in cardigans and wool pants.<BR><BR>The driver was having a smoke, must have taken pity on us and gestured to follow him. We rolled our bags after him down the boardwalk until he ran into the street and flagged down another bus. They exchanged greetings and he waved for us to join them, we rolled our bags over to him in the meridian and he motioned for us to get on the bus. The second driver spoke some English and he said he was going off duty and would be passing the train station in Nice and would drop us off there. <BR><BR>You can imagine our friend's faces when this giant empty tour bus pulls up and we get off munching grapes. The driver refused any money and insisted that we share his lunch. <BR><BR>

jonesie

We were in the Orkney islands, and the first thing we had done after checking into our hotel was go up to the Brough of Birsay (you can only get to it at low tide, when you can walk across.) About 4-5 hours later, my husband goes to put away the camera, and lo and behold, no camera bag. Where was the last place we had it, the Brough of Birsay-- he remembers setting the bag on top of the car as he changed film. Now, we are about 30-40 minutes away, he drives like a madman and we get back in 15, all the way calmly telling him there is no way it is going to be there. I reassure him we still have the camera, it's only the bag (and the first seven days of film), but I am CONVINCED there is NO WAY we will find it. It is now high tide, it was windy there before, can't imagine what it's like now at dusk, we arrive in the parking lot at the edge of the North Sea. NO cars, one garbage can which we searched to no avail, my husband and I walk down along the rocks (mind you it is windy enough that we are screaming and can't hear each other). Nothing. I walk back up to have another look around the garbage can, and I see a car driving towards me and a woman waving at me. Reality check-- I don't know anyone here, why is she waving at me?!?!<BR>She holds up the camera bag!!!<BR>I am screaming for hubby, hugging and thanking this woman, and telling her she has saved our trip!!! Turns out, she lives down the road, had watched us drive down the road and the bag fly off the top off our car (and apparently cause the person behind us to nearly swerve off the road), and had been watching for us to come back. (Did I mention that was HOURS ago???) The woman leaves, hubby finally appears, and it utterly dismayed by the story.<BR>But there is a second part...

jonesie

Last part:<BR>So, we are thanking our lucky stars and telling every holy being that this woman deserves to be blessed forever, when it occurs to us, that in our rush, we had failed to stop at an old church by the side of the road. Not wanting lightening to strike twice, we stop and have a look around. Now an older gentleman comes up to us and asks if we are the couple that lost the camera bag-- are we the only toursists here?!?!?! Are we that obvious?!?!??!! <BR>So, we work our way back to town for few well earned pints, have a lovely meal and stumble back across the street to our hotel. Next morning, we get ready to leave, and, where is my purse???!?! I literally SPRINT down 4 flights of stairs, back across the street and into the hotel/restuarant. The same waitress (in the same clothes) leads me back into the restaurant, and we explain my plight again to a man behind the bar, and he hands me my purse with a note attached &quot;found in bar last night.&quot; I could have kissed them both!!!!! So I return across the street to find my husband and the hotel owner discussing with complete confidence that my purse will be where I left it, because &quot;it's an island - where are they going to go?&quot; I can tell you that my ID was still at the bottom of my purse, so I don't think anyone even opened it to see whose it was!!!! (Sidenote: I have NEVER left my purse ANYWHERE before or since, knock on wood - but I think we quite literally lost our minds that day, and thankfully, the kindness of stranged prevailed that day!!!) <BR>Thank you Natalia, very nice post!

Daneille

After being robbed on an overnight train in Italy of my day pack containing (very expensive) camera, cosmetics, organiser, airline tickets and a whole bunch of postcards (which had been addressed but unstamped) you can imagine what a surprise it was that some kind soul had found the postcards, obviously discarded by the thief as worthless, and had bought stamps and posted them for me. They turned up about 3 months after my return.

fluffy

I arrived about midnight at the wrong Florence train station( not the S.M.) and a sweet man named Benny, hailed a cab for me; shared it, and got me to my hotel safely, and then paid for my cab fare.<BR>I was so out of it, I did not offer to repay him, I just stuppered out of the cab, saying &quot;Preggo&quot;.<BR>Only in Italy.... the next night I was having dinner with some friends, and who did I see across the room... you guessed it, Benny.<BR>I walked up to him hugged him, and paid for his dinner.<BR>Saved by the kindness of strangers.<BR>Fluffy

Linds

My story isn't quite as traumatic, but it's still one of my favorite memories. While studying abroad in undergrad, I took the train from Oxford to Aberdeen to see another friend who was studying up there. I tried to keep myself occupied with reading for my classes, but 10 hours in a train by yourself gets pretty dull after a while. <BR><BR>Anyway, I noticed that the seat next to me, and two seats across the aisle, were reserved for the same stop. As a young single woman, I was a bit nervous when 3 big, burly, rough-looking men, obviously tipsy, lumbered on in Darlington and sat in those seats. But we started talking, and once we figured out each other's accents - mine, Southern American and theirs, Northern English - we had a great time. We shared a few pints from the snack car, sang silly pop songs (Chumbawamba, anyone?), and even got the rest of the car in on our little party atmosphere. They were workers on an oil platform in the North Sea, just coming back from a few weeks' shore leave and from the wedding of one of their friends. They were the absolute salt of the earth - wonderful people. <BR><BR>Those guys turned a long, boring day into one of the best memories of all my travels. Wherever you guys are - hope you're well!