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tales of the road
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Early Morning Sale In New Delhi In New Delhi, India, I toured the Bihar Temple in a blanket of rain. The lighting conditions for taking slides were poor at best. On the street corner, a mobile salesman had slides depicting the highlights of Delhi, including the Bihar Temple. Noticing my camera, he followed me, describing the poor weather conditions for photographs. Hoping to dissuade him, I continued saying I didn't need the slides. He persisted and followed me across the street. I then offered him a ridiculously low price, just to make him stop and leave me alone. He continued to follow me across the dirt parking lot, where my bus was rumbling, waiting to go. I boarded the bus and found my seat. The next thing I know, my window is sliding open and the salesman's face appears. He then told me I could have the slides for my price. Now I felt somewhat obligated and a little guilty, because it was so cheap. Ultimately, I decided to purchase the slides. He was working pretty darn hard and I had to admire his persistent diligence. He kept saying, "You are my first sale today. You will bring me good luck all day." As the bus rolled away, I handed him the rupees out the window. Glad to have the slides, my conscience also felt a bit less guilty. We exchanged a wave as the bus left the muddy parking area.
Outsiders
Inside the Temple While in the port city of Madras, India, we decided to take a one-day bus tour of the shore temples south of Madras. Magnificent sculpted sandstone temples adorned the coast of the Arabian Sea and nearby cities. The temples were a featured national landmark and point of interest we didn't want to miss. The predawn boarding, a two-and-a-half-hour, bumpy, warm bus ride, lulled me into a hypnotic dozing state, no matter how earnestly I tried to stay awake. I kept dozing off, only to abruptly awaken after smashing my head into the window or snapping my head to avoid a face dive into the seat ahead. The endless ride seemed like a cruel dance of dozing, smashing, and whiplash. Our battered bus navigated its way through the crowded city street and arrived at the front entrance archway of the temple. Walking through the massive doorway, passing the dozens of people afflicted with disease, lost limbs, and a variety of physical ailments, we made our way to the inner courtyard of the temple. Most of the Indian people offered alms to the outstretched arms of the sick. Reincarnation, a strong tenet of Hindu religion, plays a part in the giving. Hindu people believe they will be reincarnated; maybe it will be them begging in the next life or maybe one of their family or friends. In the sprawling temple complex of carved stone buildings, we tagged along behind our tour group, like two young elementary school children on the first day of school. Through small shadowed doorways we crept, trying to avoid hitting our heads, while looking on at the colorfully painted and adorned religious and spiritual statues which lined the hallways. Ganesh, the elephant-headed god, towered over our tiny human frames, like a jolly hot air balloon in a warm, blue summer sky. Our friendly, courteous, but time-constrained tour guide motioned in annoyance for us to keep up with the group and follow him down the dark damp corridors. We picked up our pace. When we finally caught up to our congenial guide, he motioned for the rest of the group to continue on through a small passage but then indicated for us to stop. Were we going to be admonished for lagging behind? I waited for the harsh words but they did not come, just a smile. I was perplexed. I inquired why he asked us to stop. Our Indian Hindu tour guide explained that only Hindus may go into the inner temple area. A little surprised and bewildered by this announcement, I walked over to our guide, smiled, and chuckled, "but I am a Hindu, can I go in now?" His smile could have lit up the Eastern world, he laughed, shook his head and said, "no madam, you are not Hindu.' I have to admit it was pre-tty funny to see his reaction to my testimony. Luckily, he had a good sense of humor and responded with wide-eyed laughter. My friend, Joe, and I just looked at one another and had a good laugh. Suddenly, we realized that we were probably not going to see the inner area of any of the temples and somehow that made us laugh more. Here we had come so far, the whiplash bus ride, the heat and humidity, and then not to be allowed to enter the temple area. The present situation seemed so comical and yet such was the irony of my daily experiences in India. Joe and I decided to give the outer courtyard our attention and investigation. We strolled about, observing the people washing their rainbow collage of saris and clothing in the ghat. In one sun-filled corner we saw pilgrims laying their saris to dry in the hot noon sun, a kaleidoscope of color. In another corner of the temple complex we saw men painting designs of flowers upon the thick skin of Asian elephants, for the upcoming festival. Talking to and observing the pilgrims proved to be a fulfilling experience. The day was long, but satisfying. We had many laughs and make many memories. Thus, all in all, another great day of travel in India.
Table
Tax and Extortion While roaming the neon-lit streets of the small Japanese fishing town where I was once a student, my friend, Grant, and I decided to check out a few of the several dozen bars and karaoke clubs aglow that night. First, we went to a club that was the hot spot five years ago, but was now a deserted island of chrome light fixtures and black marble floors. For sentimentality, I wanted to sit with a beer and recollect on my days and nights spent in this town as a student. Now, the beers were already twice as much as they were at home but then we were charged an extra fifteen dollar in U.S. money just to sit at the bar. Well, shock wasn't the word, I had never paid table tax before we paid our tab and decided to ask next time if there was a table tax. Now wise to the extra levy, we could always stand. Our second adventure of the night began the moment we stepped into the "red velvet" room. The walls and seats were upholstered in red velvet, the plush carpets on the floor were the same deep red; the room glowed. Two hostesses greeted us, wearing tight kimono-type dresses and thick make-up like the Kabuki actors. Wary about paying table tax again, I inquired if they charged one. They assured me they did not. One hostess led us to a booth in the very uncrowded table area, the karaoke machine blaring in the corner. A couple of beers and some snacks were brought along to our table. The hostess seated herself right beside Grant and remained there even after we nodded and thanked her. Language was a factor we thought, we weren't communicating that she could leave, although, now, I realized it wasn't a communication barrier. She was our "hostess" for the evening and would stay with us to pour our beers and bring us snacks. Invited to sing a few songs at the karaoke machine, we obliged her request. I sang the slow version of the Beetles, "Yesterday," in an octave I couldn't reach, while the video behind me showed a woman wearing little if anything. I cut the song early and returned to the table. It was so bizarre I couldn't stop laughing. At the end of the night, our bill arrived. Not only did we have to pay the hostess fee but we were charged for the songs we were asked to sing, the beer the hostess drank she could really put them away too!, and the snacks we didn't order. The situation was absolutely comical. We did avoid the table tax but, we ended up spending more on other hidden costs. We thanked them and said "sayonara." Walking back to our hotel in the cool night air and splash of colors from the neon signs above, Grant and I laughed about our unexpected adventures that evening with table taxed, hostess fees, and all that red velvet!
The night before my new traveling mate, Amy, and I set off for China from Hong Kong I wrote out very carefully in Chinese characters the names of the cities and towns we wanted to travel to. In thick, dark black strokes I tried to copy the Chinese characters in a spiral-bound memo book; underneath the characters I wrote the name of the town. I only hoped I copied the characters properly, a slip in the line could have a completely different meaning. Leaving Hong Kong was easy. We took the subway until the end of the line, passed the New Territories and finally came to Shenzhen. We arrived in the Shenzhen Rail Station early in the morning amid several hundred other travelers going from place to place. Outside of the train station, a carnival-like chaos reigned. Inside the train station, the smell of urine hit me as I entered. The tile floor and barren walls made for an austere environment. I approached the ticket window after trying to inquire where it was I should purchase a train ticket. I stood up in a short line and, when I reached the small window, the woman behind the thin glass began to speak to me in Chinese. I spoke to her in English requesting a train ticket to Quilin. The ticket window woman did not understand my request so I began pointing to my small, spiral notebook and the Chinese character I drew for Quilin. I kept saying Quilin and pointing to the character. Finally she understood what I wanted and soon enough produced two one-way tickets to Quilin. My spiral bound language book was priceless while traveling through China. I used the Chinese characters I had drawn out in Hong Kong every time I went to purchase another train ticket. Without the use of the characters and notebook my stay in China may have been incredibly frustrating.
Cruising the Mekong Delta with a Personal Guide The morning air held a welcome, pleasing coolness for, shortly, the cool relief would retreat and it would soon be helplessly hot and humid once again. Joe and I were in Rach Gia, a small fishing town at the southern end of the Mekong Delta in Vietnam. Our couple of days in Rach Gia were difficult at the very best. There were few, if any, English-speaking people and it was very difficult to get the basics, namely food. We decided to return to Saigon via the Mekong River, cruise the canals where only twenty-some odd years ago American soldiers patrolled and bombed the riverbanks. The boat was like a bus on the water picking up passengers with their goods, children, and animals along the way. We both thought this would be exciting and fascinating, probably a bit uncomfortable, but who cared. As we waited for the boat to ready itself, we waited in a small restaurant cafe in Rach Gia. The small black-and-white television set hummed in the early morning air, as the crowd was mesmerized by the images before them. We sipped on iced coffees and took in the scene. Vietnam is the only country in Asia I have been to that not only has fresh bread daily but also has the best coffee I have ever tasted in my adult life. Of course, this is no twist of fate. The French, who were in Vietnam for a very long time, brought these delicious delights to Vietnam and they have survived long after the French went home. We decided to buy conical hats to wear on the boat. It would be pretty hot and sunny and we didn't want to get fried. So there we were in our straw conical hats, iced coffee in hand and ready to go. At times, I wondered if we were more interesting than the television show that was blaring in a small hut cafe. Children came up to me trying to speak and we played a bit. The boat was leaving and I was hoping we were on the correct bus. Oh well, we'd find out sooner or later, probably a lot later than sooner. The boat was wooden and had a lower deck with hammocks and benches. This section was immediately filled to way over maximum capacity. The bonus of the lower deck was that you were out of the hot sun and you had a seat. Joe and I opted to sit up top on the deck. No seats, just find a spot and plop yourself down. So we did. Before we had even started up the river a small older Vietnamese woman came over to me. She sat down next to me and took my arm into hers. She looked at me, smiled and laughed. Speaking in Vietnamese, she went on and on then looked at me for a response. I responded in English and she look a little perplexed and broke into laughter once again. And so it went for the next four-and-a-half hours. She never left me, always holding onto me in some fashion. She would point emphatically to animals or objects on the riverbanks or in its waters and repeat over and over the Vietnamese name. I would repeat back what she said until I had it right or at least it sounded correct enough to her that she would begin with a new subject and word. We did this for hours and hours. She had such a kindness and interest in her voice and eyes. Openness and curiosity exuded from this petite woman. I wanted to ask her so many questions about herself, her life. I wondered where she was during the Vietnam War, how was her life affected. So many questions and language was the barrier, not a lack of interest or want of understanding. When she smiled, it was with childlike delight. She was a very attractive woman. A woman who has worked hard in life. I could tell by her tanned skin and muscular physique. She would break into laughter and toss her head back. She had only the two front teeth in her mouth. I wondered what had happened to the rest. She was delightful mother hen that chose me look after me and protect me on the journey. She helped Joe and I when the conductor came by and wanted more cash for our tickets. My Vietnamese angel knew the conductor was being dishonest and chewed him out right there on the river. It was a pretty hysterical exchange, I just wanted to laugh and thank her for being so strong and sticking up for us. We came to her departure point. She wanted me to come with her to her village. She kept motioning to me to come with her, and smiling. I declined and tried to explain that I had to keep moving up the river to get back to Saigon. On the banks of the Mekong, we waved goodbye and I thanked her in Vietnamese, "come ong" as I folded my arms and bowed to her.
Smooth Talking Hustler At The Jaffa Gate, Israel Now, of all places in the world, the last place I'd be solicited was in the Old Holy City of Jerusalem. Wrong! The first day I went to Jerusalem and walked through Jaffa Gate, I was approached by a tall, olive-skinned, well dressed young man. I had my map out looking at where I wanted to go in the maze of alleyways of the Walled City. He strolled over and began to offer his help and advice. I said no, thank you, I could manage myself. He persisted in offering help and said he was a city guide for hire. I again said, no, and began to walk away, knowing he wasn't going to walk away from me. He asked me if I was traveling alone and a string of questions that seemed endless, so I turned and said I was traveling alone and was doing quite well. Before I knew it, he was asking me to have sex with him. I didn't know whether to be shocked or just laugh. I turned to him and basically repeated what he had just said. "You are asking me to have sex?!" He casually nodded. I proceeded to tell him I thought he was behaving inappropriately and where did he get off speaking to me that way? He began to tell me how inhibited I was and that, if I had sex with him, how great it would be and on and on and on. Sort of the narcissist hustling EnergizerÔ Bunny who won't turn off, he keeps going and going and going. I finally terminated the conversation after a sparring match of words. I walked away feeling good that I didn't let him play those demoralizing and twisted games with my head. I wondered how many women he has preyed upon with those lines. It was something out of a bad romance novel, a really bad one, yuck! Every day when I went to the city, I would pass him. Some days he was just hanging out with his shop buddies and other days he would be engaged in conversation with other women. As I would pass I would laugh, watching him make his moves and talking his talk. I knew what he was about and he knew that I knew. He would nod his head and acknowledge me when I passed if he wasn't in the grips of hustling new prey and I would nod back as I walked by. He was a real piece of work, alone and in action.
No Sale On The Kenyan Coast Or In Jerusalem While strolling Diani Beach, in Kenya, I inquired about a few beaded leather bracelets at a makeshift souvenir stand. Many of the tourists at the beach resorts were from Europe, especially from Germany. The vendor thought I was from Germany but was not certain of my nationality. As I asked for a price, he asked again where I was from: Germany? I laughed, smiled, and did not answer the question. Then I inquired, "Is there a different and higher price for the Americans?" Believing me to be German at this point, he said, "Ah, yes, different price for Americans, much higher." Once again, when bargaining with a shopkeeper in the old walled city of Jerusalem, I chimed in, "I wanted the real price, not the American price." He looked at me a little surprised as if he was just caught in a lie. Laughing with embarrassment, he said, "I don't give you American price, I give you fair price." There have been times when I have been asked where I was from when the bargaining began, England? Germany? France? America? Canada? I wondered how much the price would fluctuate depending upon the country to which I belonged. What was the price if I was to say Germany or Canada? I would ask them that very question in a humorous way. "What country will get me the best price?" Their reaction was a combination of perplexity and embarrassment. We both ended up laughing at the situation. Ask around and get a feel for what other travelers have paid for items that you may want. Go back to the shops that other travelers have had a good interaction with and good feeling about. There's nothing better than word of mouth when buying souvenirs and keepsakes. Which shop owners are fair and which are not will get around.
Top Ramen In St. Petersburg, Russia Before flying off from London to St. Petersburg, Russia, in late November, I decided to bring along a dozen Top Ramen noodle packages. I wasn't sure how available food would be and just thought I'd better take something along with me. I stayed at the youth hostel in St. Petersburg, which was terrific. Every morning we had cereal, a hard-boiled egg, coffee, cheese, and bread. Wandering the ice-frozen streets of St. Petersburg, I didn't notice many cafes or restaurants, only very high-end, posh places to eat. Being on a budget, I didn't want to blow all my cash on food. So I bought a frozen salami-type sausage from a little old babushka, who was selling them out of a suitcase in front of Moscow Station. At lunchtime, I would be walking along Nestky Prospect and have a couple of ice cream cones for lunch. I bought two vanilla ice cream cones from a mother-daughter vendor team, selling them out of a cardboard box (no freezer required) on the sidewalk. I pocketed one ice cream cone and ate the other. The air was so frigid the first ice cream cone wouldn't even think of melting in my pocket. In the evening, I would slice my sausage and eat it with the bread I saved from breakfast along with my soup, delicious.
The Dirty Old Man In The Lucerne Train Station Traveling to Switzerland at night on the train, my friend, Valerie, and I were a little punchy the following morning from the sleepless journey. We found the youth hostel, put our packs in our bunks, and decided to cruise around Lake Geneva for a few hours and try to wake up. Serendipitously we ran into two women from Buenos Aires with whom we shared a room in Barcelona. We all decided to make the boat ride together. After a couple of heavy-eyed hours on the boat, we all decided to get off at the Lucerne stop, have a look around, then catch the short train ride back to Geneva. While waiting on the platform, we found a bench and sat our weary bodies down. An older grandfatherly man sat down next to me. He looked rather gentle in his tweed jacket and trousers, harmless enough. He began to ask in soft-spoken English where I was from and the standard questions of my name, where I'd been, how did I like Switzerland. Before I finished answering him, his hand was patting and resting on my thigh. My stomach did a small somersault. I calmly reached down, took his hand and put it back on his thigh. I looked ahead and thought, this can't be happening. We continued to chat. I felt really uncomfortable and my traveling buddies were oblivious to what was happening to me at this point. Trying to be nice and sweet, I continued to talk to this creep. Mistake! Again his hand found its way back to my leg. This time I took his hand and forcefully put it back on his thigh and said, "Don't put your hands on me." He laughed and began propositioning me to have sex with him. He even went so far to ask if my friend and I would both have sex with him. I didn't know whether to start laughing or smack him across the face. I turned to my friend and said sarcastically, “This guy is asking me if we want to have sex with him.” Valerie's jaw just about dropped off her face. I turned to him and told him to leave me alone, forget it. His hands were coming around again to my upper body. I caught them midway and leapt up from the bench. At this point, I was no longer wondering what he was doing, I was furious. I began shouting at him on the platform. The other waiting passengers turned to me in shock. I was outraged and felt tricked by this creep. I wanted to knee him in the groin right there. He continued to smile and wink at me. He began to speak to the man next to him, telling him in French I was a psycho-freak. I knew this because the man he was speaking to looked at me with pity and fear. Furious, we boarded the train. I felt upset with myself that I let it go that far. Why didn't I get up when he first touched me? Why did I wait so long? What's the matter with me? Nothing was wrong with me. I just behaved as I had learned, acting like a polite and sweet young lady, until I snapped out of it and took charge. I knew next time I would react sooner and thought about what I would do. I began thinking of ways to deal with sexual harassment so that I would have some kind of game plan, to fall back on if it happened again.
Walking down the cobble-stoned streets of Sorrento, Italy, a charming and lovely southern seaside town, my friends and I were enjoying the evening atmosphere. Robin, Valerie, and I peeked into storefronts, soaked in the ocean air, and were simply delighted to be in such a place. A car full of young men pulled up slowly beside us with rocking bass music vibrating the automobile and everything around it. We each felt annoyed knowing this was going to be another stupid solicitation. The driver, as he guided the car next to us, yelled out the window, "Hey babies, do you speak English?" I quickly looked at both of my friends and motioned to them not to speak. I then turned and said, "English? No, no English. Deutsche? German?,” and looked perplexed. Chaos gave way to mutiny, everyone in the whole vehicle began shouting in a thick Italian-accented fervor, "English?! Do you speak any English, just a little bit of English?" We continued to look unaffected and strangely at them, shaking our heads “no” and repeating, "Deutsche?" Predictably, the carload of toxically high-level testosterone began shouting the sexual intimacies they wanted to engage us in and spouting profanities. Still pursuing us down the street, I turned and with a look of not understanding said, "Spreken de Deutsche? Sumimasen, hajamamashta? Uno, dos, tres, quatro?" A little bit of each language I knew, a combination of German, Japanese, and Spanish all rolled into one. My friends followed suit and began rattling off any bit of language they knew as well. The testosterone boys looked so confused and disgusted at our reply, they shook their heads in frustration and sped away into the night. We howled with laughter for several minutes after their vehicle disappeared down the street. Then we proceeded down the avenue and continued with our fine evening.
After touring the Coliseum and the Catacombs outside of Rome, my friends and I hopped the metro in the late afternoon and headed back to our hotel in downtown Rome. Exiting the metro platform and heading for the stairwell, I turned the corner and began to climb the exit stairs to the street. As I looked up the staircase, I saw four Gypsy women with their small children and babies, smoking cigarettes, reading the Rome daily newspaper, and hanging out. Our eyes made contact and they quickly extinguished their cigarettes, threw their papers down, and grabbed their children. I had heard about how aggressive the Gypsies were in Rome and felt a little panicked now because I was walking right into what felt like a trap. Instinctively, I shoved my Nikon camera, which was dangling from my neck, under my shirt. My friends still trailing along behind me, I edged over and sidled up next to a well-built Roman man. I felt a bit intrusive, but I reasoned he probably has dealt with this before and I was the rookie today. As we approached the top of the staircase, one Gypsy woman began grabbing at my hair and making the comparison to her child's hair, the same color. She began pushing her baby into my body. Feeling incredibly intruded upon and fearing I would be robbed, I pushed the woman and child back from my body and yelled at her to get back. I tried to stay next to the Italian Stallion. The Gypsy woman persisted two more times and again I pushed her away, yelled again, and kept walking. Turning the corner and out of the Gypsies’ range, I spotted my friends trying to dodge the other Gypsies. I shouted to them, they spotted me, and ran over to my location. Thanking the Italian Stallion for being my bodyguard, we laughed, and chatted a bit about the situation as he checked his back pocket for his wallet. Although this situation may sound intimidating and frightening, it is a potential occurrence for every traveler. Remember to have a plan and don't stop thinking when you are in the middle of an event. Don't be afraid to push someone back, yell at them, or run away.
Searching and Finding Valerie's Irish Roots her distant Irish connections. After spending a few days in Dublin, we set out for Donegal to find her cousins. We decided that if we found them, great, if not, then that was okay too. We were thrilled for the adventure and couldn't wait to see the rolling green pastures of the Irish countryside spotted with fluffy white sheep. We drove up to Donegal the very top of the Emerald Isle. The seashore was lovely, the boats “bobbed” in their cozy harbors, and the sky was painted with pure white clouds. Driving down a bumpy dirt road, we came upon a simple stone home. The men in front were shearing sheep. The downy soiled sheep hair was all about the dirt-laden road and the men were plastered in dirt, sheep hair, and sweat. Feeling a bit anxious about getting out of the car, I told Valerie to go ahead and inquire as to whether these were her relatives. She gave me a harsh glance and asked me to exit the car as well. We both laughed. I turned off the engine and got out. We walked up to the men. They looked at us with bewildered faces; who were these foreigners? Valerie began to ask if they were the relatives of her family. They were. We all introduced ourselves and within moments we were inside having tea. The accents were thick but the warm smile on Valerie's face fostered the bridge between the two cousins. I sat in wonder at the scene which was unfolding before me. I felt so pleased that Valerie had found her kinfolk, and a bit envious I didn't know where in Ireland mine were, but I just smiled and felt happy for my friend. We chatted for a spell and, before you knew it, we were off to the next relatives house, escorted by her sheep shearing cousin. Our next stop landed us only a few miles away at another cousin's house. Valerie's family in the United States had already visited only a few short years before. We were offered tea once again, little sandwiches, and jam. Although we had just had tea, I couldn't resist it. It had been a long time since our breakfast, and all this meeting and greeting was making me hungry, so Valerie chatted and I nibbled away. A couple of hours later, we were told that Valerie had yet another relative living only twenty minutes away down the road. We thanked our gracious hosts and hopped into the car, drove down the bumpy dirt roads and set out to find Annie Doyle. When we arrived in the town where Annie lived, we went to the post office and asked if anyone knew her or where she was. Of course, within minutes, we had directions to her home; it was a small town and everyone knew everyone. We entered a long driveway with a simple whitewashed home at the end. We left the car and smiling at each other, it had been a long and yet wonderful, wonderful day. We knocked on the door. The most delicate-looking woman of ninety-three opened the door and greeted us. Valerie explained who we were and how we found her. Without hesitation, she welcomed us into her home. Her living room was sparse, a couple of chairs, a table, and a sofa. A light cord hung from the ceiling, like a snake descending from a tree, with a bright white bulb throwing a shine that could have blinded an elephant. Valerie and I sat on the sofa, smiling and making small talk. Annie was a bit deaf so we had to shout if we spoke. After a while, Annie said, "How about some whiskey?" We said okay; she left the room, and was back with three short glasses of golden whiskey. I put my lips to the glass but the vapors of the whiskey just about knocked me out. I looked at Valerie and whispered, “I can't drink this stuff, I'm going to put some water in it.” So I excused myself and went to the kitchen. I dumped ninety nine percent of the whiskey out into the drain, leaving only enough to discolor the tap water a bit. When I returned, Annie and Valerie were sipping the Irish brew. After the whiskey was halfway gone, our hostess chimed, "How about a smoke?" I started to giggle under my breath, she was so cute. Valerie and I both said no and she looked so disappointed, I felt bad. I said to Valerie, “You drink the whiskey and I'll have a smoke with her.” Annie drew a pack of cigarettes from her table drawer, God only knows how long they had been there. She handed me the pack, I withdrew a cigarette, took the lighter from her, and lit up. We sat there, the five of us, Annie, Valerie, the cigarettes, the whiskey, and me. The smoke reached up into the bare pulsating light bulb, the air beginning to thicken and the room to warm with kinship. Although few words were exchanged, the feeling was one of love, family ties, and kindness. It was getting dark and we needed to drive three hours south that night. We stood up to leave. Annie walked us to the door. I felt a wave of sadness cover me. I didn't want to leave, she was so dear, so fragile, and so giving, the essence of Ireland. We embraced and said goodbye. Driving away, Valerie and I both felt a warm sadness. We waved as we turned the corner and drove into the Irish sunset. Delighted to have met the family she knew she had on the Emerald Isle, Valerie couldn't have felt more satisfied with the day. Thankful to have shared the moments of discovery with Valerie, I felt honored to be a part of the reunion. Tag along with a friend if you do not have information about your own family of origin; believe me, it's a blast. Although they weren't my distant Irish relatives, I sort of pretended they were and that was a blessing in itself.
Abandoned And Bummed In Budapest Budapest was one of the last cities in Europe I was to visit before heading back to see newly made friends in Germany, then finally back to England. While in Prague, encountered a woman I had met on a boat trip to the Greek Islands, two months before. She was traveling with a new buddy, Sara. They invited me to spend some time with them that evening, and it turned out that Sara and I would be in Budapest at the same time. We decided to meet at one of the accommodations in our guidebook on a specific date. I was going to Krakow first and she was going to stay in Prague longer. Delighted to have a travel mate in Budapest, I was really psyched. I went to Krakow and then met up with Sara in Budapest. We spent a couple of days together just seeing the sights and talking and talking. It was really nice to travel with someone after not having a travel mate for more than five weeks. Sara and I decided to take the overnight train to Munich, it would be safer with two people. Only two hours before we were to leave for the train station, Sara informed me that she was going to stay one more night in Budapest to "party" with her new "friends.” These people were not my type of "friends,” so I said goodbye. Anger slowly turned into anxiety as I arrived alone at the train station around 10:30 p.m. There were many men drinking and sitting about waiting for the train to depart. I felt like the only woman on the planet. I decided to walk across the street for a donut and a cup of coffee. I opened my journal and wrote. I finally admitted that somehow I knew Sara would bail on me, I just had that "feeling.” I don't know if I was angrier with her for abandoning me at the last minute or at myself for not listening to my intuition. At that point, who cares, just listen next time. I walked back to the station, saying a prayer the night would go by safely and quickly. As I was about to board the train, another young woman with a backpack was boarding. I approached her and asked if she wanted to share a cabin. She spoke little, if any, English, but, at the end of a little charade show, we were sharing a cabin. We locked the door and kept very quiet; the drunken men just passed by. The evening went smoothly and we arrived around 5:00 a.m. in Munich. We shared a cup of coffee in that chilly morning hour; although we couldn't converse I just knew she was a great person. We said goodbye and went our separate ways.
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