And We Weren't Even Arrested
I’ve had the great good fortune of marrying a university professor who likes to go to conferences. Therefore, we have traveled all over the world, and I have enjoyed almost every minute of it, especially as my husband began taking executive positions in various organizations. Oh, the cocktail parties. Oh, the free meals and the luxurious suites. (A short aside here re: cocktail parties. While other people went out to dinner afterwards, my husband insisted the nibbles available were enough, and we didn’t really need to pay for a meal. Cheap? I’ll let you be the judge.)
Now, my husband is a rather mild-mannered man. And yet, when he gets frustrated, I recede into the background and pretend I have no idea who he is. Take, for example, our TGV ride from Paris to Nantes.
In our ignorance, we didn’t prebook. We had no idea that traveling via TGV was the same as traveling on an airplane. You need a reservation if you want a seat.
Lambs to the slaughter, we went to the ticket counter, bought our tickets, the clerk said the conductor would find seats for us. Little did we know!
No conductor ever showed up. We climbed aboard and took one seat and then another and another, having to move each time someone with a reservation showed up. It was suggested we sit in the vestibule—with the luggage—all the way to Nantes. My husband is prowling the aisle, looking for the damned conductor to get us our damned seats. (No conductor ever showed up until the train was well on its way.) Finally, my husband had had it. I shrank away, as he stood in the middle of the car and said in perfect English, “Well, what can you expect from a third world country!”
Quelle horreur!!!!!
I did find a seat and huddled in humiliation for the rest of the journey. As soon as we got to the train station in Nantes, I said to my husband, “We’re getting tickets back to Paris, right this minuet.” And so we did, with seat reservations. I won’t bother mentioning the following trip to Heidelberg, where we were delayed by a fire on the track. Fortunately, my husband didn’t opine on that occasion.
Then there was our flight from Greece to Istanbul. While parts of Greece were interesting, I have no longing to return there. Was it the motorcycle that ran into me as I was crossing the street with the light in Athens? Or the crooked conference organizer. True, it wasn’t our money, but did he have to be so blatantly dishonest?
Wildfires were spreading through Greece at the time; and we were nowhere near the airport, as we were in Rio for the conference. A German participant and myself agreed that we would crawl through the smoke to make it out of Greece. Fortunately, we didn’t have to. The taxi rammed its way through. We were on our way, making that short hop between eternal enemies.
We got to the Istanbul airport. I had never seen “Midnight Express,” but I was fully cognizant that one had to be on one’s best behavior with authorities in an authoritarian country. Did my husband not get the message?
We go down the ramp to the baggage claim area and are stopped by an official at a table, who asked to see our passports. No problem. Then he informed us we would each need a visa to visit Turkey, fifty dollars each. My husband was astounded and said in what I had to admit was a very snarky tone, “Why should we pay to visit your country?” The look he got—
I quickly took out my wallet and paid the hundred dollars in cash, smiled politely at the official, and dragged my husband away. Words were spoken but not until we were well out of sight of the long arm of Turkish law.
I must say I had a wonderful time in Turkey, daily diarrhea aside, and I think Istanbul is the most beautiful city in the world—that I’ve seen—especially at night. Always trying to end my reminisces on a positive note, I won’t mention the taxi drivers, none of whom can be trusted, even after you negotiate the fare.