Cass

As hommage to the Abate/I Was Drunk threads, here's an invitation to record a moment in your travels when you wondered if you had temporarily entered a parallel universe. <BR> <BR>One such more took place for me on a two-lane winding road in England, close enough to a city to create a backup on what should have been a rustic lane. As we crept forward at a steady 10 MPH around a tree-shrouded corner, I noticed brakelights coming on intermittently at precisely the same place ahead, so I assumed a pothole or branch in the road in front of them. <BR> <BR>But as we approached The Place ourselves, we saw some bushes moving on the side of the road, and suddenly a hunched-over old man with a long walking stick jumped out toward our car. He yelled and jumped up and down and shook the pole at us; and about all I could catch of what seemed to be a long rant was "ye come down here and ye come here and ....!!!" Then he jumped back into the bushes. In the rear-view mirror, I watched as he waited a bit and repeated the attack on some cars behind us. <BR> <BR>Efforts since then to put the man in some kind of context have seemed pointless - the moment was complete in itself.

elvira

Three of us arranged a trip to Malta, which included airfare, pickup at the airport, and an apartment. Rusty and I were supposed to fly in together, with Ahgeez coming in the next day (which is what we told the agency). It worked out that Ahgeez and I flew in together, and Rusty came in the next day. Ahgeez and I arrive at 10pm, and there's a guy with a sign "Elvira and Rusty". I say "here we are, this is Ahgeez" and the driver demands that we produce Rusty, and refuses to take us to the van as we have the WRONG WOMAN WITH US. Ok so I finally convince him that we haven't done away with Rusty just to get a ride, and he grabs our wheely bags and RUNS toward the van. Ahgeez and I are panting to keep up; we get in the van, and the driver hurdles through the night at Batmobile speeds, blowing through stop and yield signs like they were mere suggestions. We finally get to the apartment complex where the driver comes to a screeching halt, throws our bags out of the back as fast as he can, and leaves us a good 200 yards from the entrance...in pitch black. <BR>And that was the normal part of the trip...

suzanne

On a recent trip to visit a friend in Ireland, I had to go to the emergency room with an excrutiating gall bladder attack. The emergency room was deserted (coming from NYC I thought this was wonderful) and the radio was blaring to relieve the boredom of employees. The song that was playing upon my hospital admittance? "Stayin' Alive!" I laughed through my agony.

April

Just as well they weren't playing "All of me", Suzanne. <BR> <BR>This isn't a Europe story but one of the strangest sites I saw as far as people goes happened in the Serengeti. We were in an area that was particularly dry and dusty, the middle of nowhere. A grass fire was burning. There we were creeping along in the truck, no one else around - no tourists, no residents, no animals even, when out of the scrub and smoke walks this tall slim man dressed in a dark, fashionable suit and wearing sun glasses. I have no idea what he was doing there but he looked like an FBI agent or a James Bond character and couldn't have been more out of place. <BR>

frank

Two years ago walking along the coast in Sicily near Naxos I passed a small wooden sailboat ouside a house, not in the sea.Noticing a column of smoke I checked it out - indeed the stern was on fire, a pile of rope & sail having caught light somehow. <BR>Luckily an old man was gazing out from a half-door in the next <BR>house."Il barco" I explained in pig Italian "is on fire". <BR>Gravely the ancient regarded the thickening column of smoke.Evidently his eyesight was OK. <BR>I repeated my message.Eventually the man assured me that the boat was certainly NOT on fire. <BR>I insisted it was."no it's not"-"yes it is"-no,no"-"yes,yes" <BR>As the flames increased it became obvious that the concept of boat-on-fire was never going to be acceptable. <BR>Suddenly feeling uncomfortable for some reason,my partner & I walked off, occasionally glancing back to see the man gazing at the non-fire and trying to decipher his expression......... <BR>

ohboy

Yes, see the posting titled Paris Bridges

Jayce

Then there was the Roman soldier who cursed me for rebuffing his unwanted attentions in a restaurant: "D-mn virgin!"

Karen

Capri, October 1974(?), sitting on the concrete dock-like area in front of the Faraglioni, sun-bathing in a bikini (I was much younger then), while my husband snorkled, unseen, just out in the water. Very few people about, in spite of the warm and sunny weather. A man I had never seen before, portly and much older (probably my age now!) emerged from the water in HIS bikini and demanded a kiss. I suppose I was drunk with the beauty of the day and the place, so that it seemed a reasonable request. I kissed him on the cheek, just as my husband appeared back on the dock too. Everyone laughed, we met Gigi from Buenos Aries, who insisted that we have lunch with him. He went off to the impossibly expensive bathhouse near us (my husband and I were nearly penniless graduate students who had climbed down the rocks to get there) and returned with two drop-dead gorgeous girls, one blonde and one brunette, who were both travelling with him. They were followed (I swear I am not making this up) by several black-jacketed waiters carrying a table, chairs, linens, dishes, glasses, and then an entire delicious meal which was served right there on the rock next to the sea! We never saw any of them again, but I will never forget lunch with Gigi, when I felt I was an actress in a scene out of a Fellini movie.

pam

On my first day in Heidelberg, I bought a nosegay of roses from an old lady on the street. I carried them all day and put them in a cup of water next to my bed that night. The next morning, the scent of the roses woke me. Before I opened my eyes, I felt on my face the cool air coming in through the window and felt the perfect warmth of the down comforter over me. It was an incredible sensory experience that I'll remember always. Every time I think of it I feel such peace and relaxation.

Neal Sanders

Karen, your zen moment is priceless. Thank you for sharing it. <BR> <BR>Cass, my own story also takes place in France, circa 1977. I was on the no. 6 line having boarded at Bir Hakeim, headed toward my hotel just off of the Ave. Kleber. It was about 7 p.m., the subway car had fewer than a dozen people, half of whom got off at Trocadero. In the last row of seats, a twenty-ish woman glanced around at the people in the car, seemed satisfied with what she saw, and proceeded to change her clothes. From fairly prim office attire, she stripped to her underwear and reconstituted herself for an evening on the town. <BR> <BR>The other people on the car either never looked up from their newspapers or else glanced up, saw nothing unusual, and went back to their private thoughts. <BR> <BR>The woman and I both got off at Kleber; not wishing to be thought a voyeur or worse, I hung back until she was clear of the station. When I came up the stairs, she was crossing the street, headed toward the Pl. Victor Hugo. All I could think was, "you're not in Boston anymore."

Ann

I was traveling with a friend in 1993. While in Utrecht we went out for a night on the town. Having met some locals at a bar, we spent the evening going from one place to another. We were out late enough that only a few places remained open. The last bar we were at gave us each a small slip of paper (like a grocery store receipt) when we came in the door. Everything written on it was in Dutch, and none of the people we were with seemed to pay particular attention to the slip, or make any mention of it being important. Much like the bars in the US, we assumed it was an advertisement for bands that might be playing, menu specials, etc. <BR> <BR>I think it was about 4am when the bar closed. (I'll add there that we really were not drinking much during the night..). As the bar is closing people are being herded towards the exit. Suddenly people are grabing these white paper slips from their pockets and there is a bit of a traffic jam at the doorway. <BR> <BR>Imagine are heart stopping panic when we learned that apparently you are required to save the slip of paper in order to exit the bar. Each time you order a drink, the waitress would mark the drink on the slip, and you pay at the door as you leave. If you have lost your slip you are suspected of ringing up a large tab and then trying to escape without paying. The "fine" for not having your slip was something like 300 guilders - much much more than either my friend or I could afford. Additionally, if you leave a blank, or nearly blank, slip laying about, someone will switch it with one that has been heavily used. Being ignorant of this entire process, my friend had lost her slip. <BR> <BR>A desperate scramble took place as the group of people we were with tried to find a solution. We were desperately scrambling and trying to look like we weren't desperately scrambling to avoid attention in the rapidly emptying bar. Finally the entire group of about 10 rushed the door waving money and slips and pushed though in the resulting confusion. <BR> <BR>It was such a strange system - are we were so completely ignorant of it. I later thought that it might be fairly common in the Netherlands, since none of the people in are group thought to mention it to us before hand. (Everyone did pay their tab, by the way).

KK

One for the Lunacy Chronicles <BR> <BR>"...Krimml is the site of the highest waterfalls in Europe. About 5 km before you get to the town itself, you round a bend on the road from where you can actually see the water, cascading down the face of several cliffs. Now you know. <BR> <BR>It is a tiny town. If you look for a hotel there on the net, as I did, you will find two listed. One, the Post, is listed as being in 'the center of the village,' and the other, <BR>the Klockerhaus on ‘the outskirts of the village.’ They are, in fact, next door to each other! Downtown Krimml is four buildings long -- a bookshop, <BR>a pizzeria and another inn with a restaurant, and a church, of course, are the only other places across the way. Alt: 909 m. Pop: 1,081, total number of visitors, on that fall day of ‘98: three. <BR> <BR>A local marketing guru, in a brochure found in the lobby, put it best: <BR> “If you think that Krimml is just another boring village in the <BR> middle of nowhere, you are quite wrong! <BR> Here in Krimml you will rise early <BR> so as not to miss a minute of the wonderful summer days in Krimml.” <BR> <BR>It was fall. He was still right. I did get up early.... " <BR> <BR>"....The next morning, Herr Steger, dressed traditionally, unlike the day before, in Austrian garb, invited me to an “internet conference” after breakfast. Intrigued, and with only 55 km to my next destination, I had time to spare. <BR> <BR>An earnest, bespectacled young man, with a laptop was setting up a projection <BR>screen in what had been the restaurant the night before. Herr Steger introduced <BR>him as “Gerhardt, all ze vay fromm Saltz-burg.” For some reason, this was important. I nodded, my head somberly. deferring to the solemnity of the occasion. Other people began to arrive and in about 15 minutes, the proceedings started -- in Austrian, of course. <BR>. <BR>If...you...speak...real...slow, I can understand it. This guy spoke real fast, and I knew there was no way that I could follow what he was saying. This much was clear: he was selling. But nobody was buying. Then it struck me: the attendees were inn owners from neighboring villages and the presenter worked for an ISP in Salzburg. He wanted to wire <BR>them up. This was getting better and better... Most of the people in the room had never even used a computer! <BR> <BR>The presentation being made had obviously, been put together in a Salzburg corporate backroom. It was chockful of boiler-plate segments. My heart went out to poor, inexperienced Gerhardt, because he was losing control of the crowd, and doing so, fast! Five minutes later, as he was explaining the intricacies of e-mail -- don’t ask me why he even went there -- confusion was making its presence felt. <BR> <BR>I realized that he had been entrusted with an even larger task by his corporate honchos. Not only was he selling the ISP, but the whole kit and kaboodle that went with it: $2,000 a pop. No wonder people were getting worked up! <BR> <BR>Confusion was rampant in the room now. I could no longer sit there..." <BR> <BR>"...Herr Steger’s helpless gaze registered my return, and in an attempt to restore order, he said something to the effect, in austrian, of course that he had a guest hier, who had found the hotel webside. “Mr. Coo-rana,” he implored. <BR> <BR>Fifteen pairs of eyes zeroed in on me. Ach, So. Ziss is the animal who threatens... <BR>Ziss, Ziss, Ziss... Internet traveler. In austrian, of course. That’s the other part: Austrian. I did not speak it-- I know a few words of it-- but that’s about it. I looked into the puppy <BR>dog eyes of the young lad whose parents had so lovingly christened him Gerhardt. He was considering changing careers. In austrian, of course. <BR> <BR>I asked him if he could get onto a search engine and look for “Krimml+hotels” He could and did. The room relaxed, somewhat. Ziss, they could identzify with. Alta Vista came <BR>back with two hits. The Klockerhaus and the Post. Fourteen necks craned forward to read the screen. The nickel dropped. Nods and smiles broke out across the room. My membership in the goodguys club had been restored. In austrian, of course <BR> <BR>Excerpted from 'An Austrian thing: a <BR>journey thru Tirol and the Salzkammergut' a narrative written by YT <BR> <BR>If you would like to read the entire article, which includes Reutte and Zell am See, please email me. <BR> <BR>For an article on to the zen part of the equation: <BR> <BR>http://www.eurotrip.com/destinations...tt2/index.html <BR> <BR>Peace

Carol

This is absolutely the best thread I've read. I wish I had something to contribute. Ah well, maybe next trip....

tom

in nice france in 1996 i went up to the citadel park to take pictures. little did i know that the man walking down the steps past me was the person locking the gates of the park. im six foot seven so he didnt miss me. well walking back down to the locked gate i was wondering what my girlfriend was thinking. i walked back up about two hundred stairs to find a japanese girl histerically crying about being locked in. i convinced her to follow me and we tried other exits. as we walked we ran into a mother and son from italy. they were in the same boat as us. no one spoke the others language but the desire of allof us to get out was the primary thought of all. i then went to the last gate and found four other people locked inside. putting eight people now as our group we spied two cars with young couples who were using the park as a lovers lane. they spoke some english and i asked them how they were getting out. they were not aware that they were locked in. about five minutes later i saw a police car driving outside the gate. i ran over got their attention and they said to take all the people to another gate and there they let us out. i cant believe that this goes on every night but it must.

lola

So many moments, so little space. The center of Bali, 1989. I was traveling on my own, with a driver, and we spied a cremation ceremony going on by the side of the road, as many are throughout the island each day. The driver asked if I wanted to attend and I said I would very much like to. The ceremony was beautiful: an old woman was placed on the ground over wood, and her family and friends were throwing petals on her body, till it was covered in flowers. I stood back on the grass, wearing a traditional Indonisian sarong around my waist--as is the custom for tourists if you want to enter Balinese temples, as I had been doing. The family acknowledged my respectful presence and lit the wood. As the body went up in flames, all of a sudden I felt stinging sensations up and down my legs, and I realized I had been standing on a nest of fire ants. I jumped around, scratching and rubbing myself in a frenzy, all the while trying not to disrupt the solemn ceremony. The people couldn't help staring at this Caucasian stranger jumping up and down in some sort of strange ceremonial dance and took it as my way of showing respect to the dead woman. They were polite enough to watch me the whole time I writhed around, slapping at the ants, unaware that I was in simply in agony. I eventually made it back to the car bitten and mortified, with the ill-fitting sarong practically unravelled. They must have thought I was one of the weirdest strangers they had ever seen and that I certainly had an unusual way of paying respects.

elvira

ohmigod, this thread is hysterical. If someone made a movie of all these, er, sightings, it would be panned by every reviewer as 'unbelievable' 'obviously written by someone who has never traveled'. Truth really is stranger (and funnier) than fiction. <BR>I especially like the FireAnt FireDance tribute; sure makes Irish wakes look tame. And I think Neal has solved the mystery of where to find nekkid wimmins.

John

I flew out of Moscow at oh-dark-thirty one morning back in the ole USSR days, on a TU-134, a Frankenjet which I believe Aeroflot had assembled from the wreckage of 3 or 4 others (hats off to the Aeroflot A&P guys – talk about resourcefulness), and landed at Gatwick some hours later (nourished on another delicious Aeroflot in-flight “meal” – but that’s another story.) I then retrieved my Veewee from some car park near the airport and proceeded to drive north, through the center of London (before the M25 mattered) and all the way to Edinburgh, arriving home around 10 PM (yes, it was Midnight in Moscow, la la la.) Knackered was an understatement. <BR> <BR>So then the doorbell rings and standing outside are two of Edinburgh’s finest, looking uncharacteristically sheepish and asking me if I’m the person in whose name my car is registered and will I come quietly and oh sir I’d recommend taking along a toothbrush. Ohh-kay. Down we go to the street and into the police van (no windows) and off through the night to the jail (or gaol if you will) which at the time was in the basement of the high court, the medieval ex-original Parliament Hall in the Old Town. <BR> <BR>Did I say basement? Try dungeon. Low, arched ceilings, thick iron bars, doors that go clang, the works. I am presented to the booking officer who informs me that I am in violation of section blah blah of the Edinburgh Burgh statutes, I ask what’s that and he says, “unpaid parking tickets.” <BR> <BR>I recall I reverted to American and said, “Huh?” <BR> <BR>Now my attitude toward parking meters is pretty testosterone-based, and I had been a graduate student for a couple of years prior, often lost in study while the car waited patiently at the meter, so the idea of a backlog of parking citations was not a shock to me. But getting busted in the middle of the night and being hauled off to help the police with their enquiries, as they say, well, it seemed a bit much. <BR> <BR>While I’m standing speechless before the commissar (oops, wrong country) the jailer walks past. He is carrying a giant hoop with numerous giant skeleton keys on it. He is a hunchback. I am not making this up. (Aside – can someone tell me the PC term to use for this disability? I know it’s offensive, and I am truly sorry for using it, but that fact added considerably to the surrealism of the moment.) <BR> <BR>Thinking I had started out this long day in the shadow of the Lyubyanka and had no desire to end it sharing a cell with the Count of Monte Cristo, I protested. I had paid (well, some) of the tickets, I’ve just flown in from Moscow (raised eyebrows), you can imagine. <BR> <BR>The matter resolved with me threatening to get the American Consul General out of bed, and with my posting some number of pounds as a bond against flight (yeah, sure), and a promise to appear at the Burgh Court the next morning to meet my fate (about £100 and a scolding, as I recall). I returned home via the same van at about 3 in the morning, thinking this was all some sort of vodka-induced dream. <BR>

judy

What great moments! One of my favorite memories occurred in a Paris metro several years ago. My friend and I had just entered the train and found a seat when the man facing us just a few feet away stood up and began singing a beautiful aria in an outstanding tenor voice. We glanced around, but no one seemed to notice anything out of the ordinary; in fact, no one even watched him. He continued to sing until the next stop, and the concert was timed perfectly. His voice faded and the song ended as the train came to a halt and he stepped out. How I wanted to applaud him, but not knowing the custom (if there is one covering this situation), I chose to politely smile.

Beth

We were in England a few years ago, and were planning to visit Blenheim. We had arrived at a B&B near there late one afternoon, and decided to take a walk before going out to dinner. There were signs for a "Roman Villa" and we thought we would go see what was there. We walked from our B&B down a dirt road, and then started out across a field on something not much more than a cow path. We came across a middle aged, American woman in the middle of nowhere, sitting with a pile of luggage. She said "Are you going to the villa??" To which we replied that we were. So she asked if we would help her with her luggage, as she was also going to the villa. Her daughter had gone on ahead, because hopefully someone from "the villa" would come to help them. Well, we didn't know quite what to say. See, this villa was really a ROMAN villa, wiht no walls, just some ancient mosaics. And this woman seemed to think it was a hotel. We really don't know HOW she got in the middle of the field either, or where her daughter had really gone off too. But she seemed pretty certain someone was going to come help her soon. She told us she was from Arkansas and it was her first time in England. We weren't able to help her, although we explained that we didn't think she would find anyone at "the villa". All throughout our trip we kept wondering if Ms Arkansas had found her way out of that field yet.

Cass

Dear friends! These have been wonderful, even better than one could have expected. If there are more out there, I look forward to them. Meanwhile, a rather unformed idea of having them published somewhere prompts me to ask if anyone would object.