As I sit at home bemoaning the fact that any travel plans I may have had over the past year have all been canceled, and any new trips I am currently considering may suffer the same fate, I find myself thinking wistfully back to the good old days when I could travel to other countries and the worst that might happen is that I get kidnapped and murdered.
Those were simpler times.
I was recently reminded of a trip I took many years ago when I was but a lad of 17. My school was sponsoring a trip to Europe. Five staff members from the school were assigned to escort 20 high school aged children through eight countries in fourteen days. My parents thought the trip sounded like an amazing opportunity for me to experience foreign cultures and new people, so they immediately signed me up for the journey.
This was only one of the many mistakes my parents made raising children, but it was probably near the top of their list.
In Summer of 1983, I packed my bags and flew to London, England. From there we boarded a hovercraft to get us across the English Channel and charter a bus to tour France, Belgium, Switzerland, Germany, Italy, and two other countries I can’t remember because I am a common product of the American school systems.
Throughout our travels, minor tragedies occurred that constantly interfered with the adults well-planned itinerary: A few students were sneaking alcohol into the hotel rooms at night, two were caught with drugs and shipped back home, and one of our chaperones fell ill and had to fly back to the states. I steered clear of (most of) it.
My turn, however, came while we were visiting Italy. The tour group was staying in a hotel in Venice, enjoying the garbage laden streets, rats, countless alley cats, black market thugs in dark doorways, and endless snide remarks in broken English from Italian citizens that took a less than stellar view of foreigners.
During the day, we had placed all our luggage in our rooms and gone out sightseeing. When we returned, several of the rooms had been broken into and the luggage stolen. Our bags had been thrown out a window and were found in the streets below, broken open and ransacked. Money, cameras, and other small items of value were taken.
That night, after it got dark and most of the other tourists in our group had settled back into their rooms, I went out. To commemorate our ill-fortuned stay in the city, another student and I decided to go out on our own and get drunk.
The other student (let’s call him Joe, since his parents might still be alive and they don’t need to know about any of this) told me that there was no legal drinking age in Italy. As long as you were tall enough to look over the counter at the liquor store clerk, you could buy booze.
I said, “Prove it.”
He did.
We ended up buying something cheap and high octane since our budget was limited. The guy working the register didn’t bat an eye as he sold us the bottle of brown poison we had selected. We raced outside and cracked it open without delay.
An hour or so later, we were both standing at the top of one of the many tiny bridges overlooking the canals of Venice. I like to think that we were comporting ourselves with dignity and silent decorum, but I don’t think that was actually true as we immediately drew the attention of a local police officer.
The Italian polizia waved at us and said something I didn’t understand. I said, “What?”
He nodded as though realizing something he should have already known, and responded, “Ah, American.”
He then pointed at the alcohol bottle in my hand and told us that the legal drinking age in Italy was 18. I looked at Joe, who merely shrugged as if to say, “I was wrong. What are you gonna do?”
The officer then asked if we were 18.
My first thought was to run. The AK-47 assault weapon slung over the officer’s back made that thought dissipate as fast as it had occurred. Next, I glanced down at the canal below me, wondering if I could swim for safety. I spied a large rat, about the size of my head, dogpaddling along the edge of the canal looking for a good place to climb ashore. Plan B also faded from my thoughts.
I went with Plan C, and said, “Yes?”
The officer scowled. He clearly knew I was lying but for some reason he decided to let it slide.
“Do you have a hotel room?”
I nodded, and Joe reached into his pocket to pull out our hotel room key. He flashed the officer the name of the hotel on the plastic tag attached to the key.
The polizia told us, “Go straight there. If I see you again, you sleep in jail tonight. Yes?”
Then he pointed at the bottle still in my hand and indicated a nearby garbage can. I took the hint.
At a full run, we were back at our hotel about thirty seconds later, in our rooms and pretending nothing abnormal had just happened.
This is why I love travel. You never know what’s going to happen, and the stories you get to tell later always sound better when they start somewhere away from home.
Let’s be honest. Which story would you rather hear?
The one that starts out, “I was standing in the bathroom at home and the toilet started to overflow…”
Or
“Me and my buddy were drunk and standing on top of a bridge in the middle of Venice…”
Because, honestly, I could tell either one of those tales, and I think I chose the correct one for today.
.
.
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