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Traveling Boy means the travel adventures of the Traveiling Boitanos
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Travel adventures of a Boitano family friend

Ok, it is your time to vent… your luggage has been lost, there’s no hot water in your hotel room and something moved on your plate during lunch. Now your drunken tour bus driver has passed out and you discover the souvenir gifts you just purchased could be bought for one-tenth the price in the next town.

Welcome to T-Boy’s Travel Nightmares. Share your worst with us.

      

January 2009

Turkish Trots

Margaret and I snapped our gaze to the right. A sentry had jerked a machine gun up to his shoulder and was leaning forward to fire

The 1958 Plymouth wheezed its way up the cobbled night time streets of Istanbul as our guide told us about his city.

He was a tall, suave, old-world gentleman who spoke almost perfect English. With his blazer and flannels and cravat at the neck, he reminded me somewhat of Reginald Gardiner, the movie actor still caught sometimes on late night television portraying the perfect butler or the debonair man about town.

In contrast, the driver, a short little fellow hunched up over the wheel with only the top of his head showing, seemed more like Peter Lorre. Not speaking any English he contributed nothing to the conversation. Our guide, in the front seat, leaning awkwardly against the dash to face us in the rear for his running commentary, would every so often break off from his English to make a comment to the driver in Turkish, usually when Peter Lorre missed a gear change-and that was often.

We drove on towards the Topkapi Palace.

After our tiring flight from Izmir, I should have contented myself with the ride to our airport hotel, especially since Margaret, my late wife, had barely recovered from our bout of turista but the guide's offer to show us the city by night was too enticing for an obsessional photographer who had both a tripod and unused film in his bag.

"I'm not sure if the Palace is floodlit," said Reginald Gardiner, "I've not been this way at night for some months, but we'll be there soon."

As if he'd understood, the driver suddenly stood on the brakes hard and hanging an awkward right tore into a one-way street-the wrong way. We flew up the cobbles, gears crunching, springs groaning and tires squealing protest. In the back, we looked dubiously at each other but Reginald reassured us with the cryptic remark, "True, yes, one way, but at night it doesn't matter."

He continued to chat amiably as if to practice his English while I peered out into the night. Clearly it had been a mistake to ask for this. I didn't need photographs. I'd shot the Palace by day on a previous visit. This was crazy. The city was in pitch darkness as was the Palace now ahead of us. Not even the sentry box was illuminated. Time to go home.

Peter Lorre will turn in the car park, I thought, and we'll soon back to our hotel.

As if to prove his independence, the driver floored the accelerator and we shot through the iron gates like buddies in the Cannonball Run: Lorre over the wheel, Margaret clutching her stomach, me tapping my tripod and Gardiner, still facing backwards as he urbanely practiced his English.

He glanced nonchalantly over his left shoulder then abruptly stiffened, turned his petrified ashen face to us and shouted, "My God! He's going to shoot."

Margaret and I snapped our gaze to the right. A sentry had jerked a machine gun up to his shoulder and was leaning forward to fire.

"My God. Stop!" shouted our guide-in English.

Peter Lorre drove on.

"God. Stop!" shouted the guide striking the driver across his shoulders. He suddenly understood, stood on the brakes and the car skidded to a stop.

We were twenty feet beyond the sentry but even at that distance and in the dark I could see his hands were trembling on the weapon. He crouched forward more and swung the gun up and down the length of our car. The soldier shouted at our driver and gestured to him to turn around. Instead of reversing right there, Peter Lorre, unbelievably, started to drive farther into the palace grounds to find a convenient turning point. Our guide uttered an oath and struck the driver again, this time on the head. Finally our Plymouth reversed and returned slowly to the sentry.

The next few minutes remain a blur of groveling explanations and babbling apologies from a now-perspiring Reginald Gardiner punctuated by stern motions with the gun through our now-open windows, my wife who was sitting on the right side at the back, and still clutching her stomach, ducking every time the barrel came her way. Finally the sentry kicked the vehicle. He snarled something at our completely overwhelmed guide and gestured curtly that we could leave.

We drove slowly and cautiously away and didn't stop until we reached a lighted cafe area. The flickering blue light of the cafe's neon sign illuminated the strained face of our Reginald Gardiner, no longer debonair. He plucked the scarlet handkerchief from his blazer breast pocket and wiped his sweating face.

"I, I was going to, to take you back to your hotel," he stammered, "but I'm going to get an omnibus here that will take me, take me past my, my home. The driver will take you to, to your hotel. It has indeed, indeed been a, a pleasure meeting you. Good night."

He bowed and immediately disappeared.

We drove back in silence still shaking.

"At the airport he originally intended just to take us to the hotel, didn't he? Right?" Margaret hissed at me.

I nodded weakly.

"And you, damn you, had the priceless idea of driving around Istanbul in the dark at a time when the country is under martial law? And when you knew I was desperate for a toilet. Right?"

I shrugged foolishly.

"And I was on the side that the bullets would have come from?" she continued. I gave her a silly grin.

"You know what I was thinking when we thought he was going to fire?" my wife of 25 years said, punching my shoulder.

I rubbed my shoulder and shook my head.

"I was thinking that I'd get the bullets but you'd survive," she said. "And our kids would fix you, Buster. They'd give you Hell for the rest of your life."

She leaned back in her seat and started to laugh hysterically.

"You know," she said, "It would almost have been worth it."

Eric Anderson

      


Salmonella. Waffle House. Ringold , Georgia . 2001

Egg Waffles

I found some rather disturbingly flavored gas emanating from each of my digestive orifices

Well, you have to eat breakfast right? What better place to do that than at the venerable Waffle House, an empire of breakfast restaurants spread throughout the East Coast and South, but whose corporate headquarters has somehow effectively shunned the West Coast market. Having lived within 100 miles of the Pacific Ocean my whole life, I fell in love with the Waffle House rather late in life, while traveling for work through the South and East Coast. Having discovered my own personal breakfast paradise, I would take every available opportunity to sit at their counter and stare hungrily at the sizzling grill before me, short order cook slaving to keep up with the volumes of orders, waiting my turn to be breast fed my own warm share of the Waffle House Nectar. What could beat a southern-style diner environment with scrambled eggs, soft bacon, and a waffle, prepared right in front of your eyes? No sooner does the food leave the grill than it touches your drooling lips. Mmmmmm. A form of perfection.

Believe me, I look forward to a Waffle House breakfast at every opportunity, even after the wicked story of fate that follows. Even so, this experience has permanently altered my breakfast eating habits, and I think you'll see why:

Well, so then, I sat down one lovely warm Georgia morning to another breakfast at the House. I couldn't wait. I remember some small talk with the short order cook, a thirty year old man or so. His demeanor and cooking skills raised no suspicions. However, when the meal arrived, I noted that the scrambled eggs looked a bit undercooked. I don't really prefer my eggs in that manner, half of the reason being concerns about health risks, but when they arrived that way, I always managed to rationalize in my memories the many times I've seen my friends order their eggs 'over easy,' which is essentially raw embryo. They never got sick, so why bother sending eggs like this back? Paranoia, right? I was about to find out otherwise. Yes, I ate all the eggs, and everything else on the plate, and after that, I wouldn't be surprised if I got kicked out of the restaurant that morning for licking the enamel off the plate.

So I have a long drive ahead of me that day, like ten hours worth. At about 2:00 pm, I felt that something was wrong, I didn't know what, but I knew something bad was happening. Shortly thereafter, I found some rather disturbingly flavored gas emanating from each of my digestive orifices (top and bottom), and both brands of gas I had never experienced before, each declaring a differing (thankfully) but decidedly pungent sulfuric tinge. Oh. My. Gosh. What is happening? By 7:00 pm, I knew something was horribly, horribly wrong. Adding to stomach discomfort and the horrible sulfuric gaseous emissions, I had a headache, and my legs were killing me. They were completely sore in a numb sort of way and it was getting worse. All I could do was find a place to crash out, and I hit the sack very early. I called my boss and told him I was really sick, and told him I wasn't going to make my appointment, and that he'd have to find someone else. Luckily, a substitute was available, so I was left to suffer, at the very least, without the added guilt of screwing up a job. I laid down at probably around 8:00 pm, and tried to sleep. My legs were so sickeningly numb, that the only remedy I could find to distract myself from that was to repeatedly kick my legs. All I could do was try to sleep, kicking my legs, waking up only to drink water, pee, and kick my legs some more. This went on for 36 hours. I slept that night, all through the next day, and all the next night until around 9:00 am, and to say it again; waking only to pee, drink voluminous amounts of water, and kick my legs like a freak until I could go back to sleep. Oh, it was horrible.

You knew it was coming. Needless to say, the final morning, I had to go to the bathroom. Yes, it was our old pal, the exalted Number Two, and the result was none other than an output of epic volume and proportionate salmonella-infested-colon horror. I know that I know... that I know that the substance could easily have been bottled up and injected into chemical warfare artillery aerosol warheads, and wiped out legions of unsuspecting Enemies of America. The rest of the day I was mostly functional, but still in a sort of a state of shock from having to endure all that.

If I had it to do over again, I would still have eaten the Waffle House that morning, salmonella and all; that’s how tasty their breakfasts are. Rather, I would have just checked myself into a hospital at the onset of symptoms to ride out the experience in a medically induced coma.

Imaginations aside, the way it went down, the whole experience was awful. I mean world-class awful.

The End.

Morals of the story:

  1. Always eat at Waffle House. Always!
  2. Never eat an under-cooked egg. Never!

Posted by: Feaster from NW


      

Wedding Party in Maine

Our nightmare was about to begin --- the owner had rented the quarry house for a wedding reception

I was working on Wall Street and desperately needed a break. My wife had read about a former quarry house in Camden, Maine, that had been refurbished into an 'intimate' bed and breakfast. It sounded like it was just what the doctor had ordered. With a three-day weekend around the corner, we managed to make a reservation. After a late afternoon departure, we found the structure in the dark, nestled at the end of a dirt road, just a stone's throw from the ocean. It seemed to fit the bill. We were in such a good mood that we didn’t even mind when we found that there was only one bathroom on the second floor. Nothing was going to ruin our retreat. It was going to be three days of reading by the fire in the B&B’s great room, idyllic walks on the beach and hearty shore meals, as advertised in the brochure.

We took an early morning stroll along water's edge, then opted to luxuriate with late morning naps. Suddenly, we were awakened by the noisy sound of some sort of caravan. Peeking out the window, we saw at least 20 vehicles, led by a limousine, heading down the dirt road. Our nightmare was about to begin –-- the owner had rented the quarry house for a wedding reception. Looks like the reading by the fire would have to wait. We bolted for our car to kill some time at nearby town, but couldn’t move due to the now seemingly endless line of reception vehicles still arriving. Finally, after serving as a makeshift parking attendant, I was able to get a few drivers to pull over into a field, and we finally made it out.

We hung out in the town as long as we could, then decided to see if the party was finally over. To our horror, it was going in full swing. Music was blasting. The newlyweds were in their early 20s, and entire groups were taking shots of tequila. There was even a guy vomiting in the bushes. I desperately tried to find the owners to complain, but they were nowhere to be found. When I returned to the great room, I found some drunken frat boy actually hitting on my wife. This is crazy, we both thought, let’s just bolt out of here. So what if we paid the next night in advance. We grabbed our gear and headed to the car. The owners then appeared and demanded to know why we were leaving. We explained the obvious. What do you care, the woman asked, you weren’t even here. When I stepped back into the building to retrieve our final piece of luggage, the frat boy whom I had chastised for flirting with my wife took a swing at me. His friends held him back. I couldn’t wait to get back to the relative tranquility and civility of the pit on Wall Street.

Words of advice: the Internet is great, but always try to interview your hosts before booking a room at a bed&breakfast.

Terry Masen – Hoboken, New Jersey

      

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