When You Look Like Your Passport Photo, It's Time To Go Home Read Online Free PDF Page B

said, “This is what I need. I promised myself I wouldn't pig out.” By the end of the first week, no one spoke when the basket of hard rolls was placed on the table. We all knew the truth. The continental breakfast is not designed to make you thin. Even if it is eaten in small pieces, it will expand and distribute itself on your hips and thighs until you are molded into its image. My husband accused the tour company of issuing the same rolls every morning. He said they scooped up the uneaten ones and forwarded them to our next destination. I told him he was being ridiculous, but he was adamant. He carved his initials and the date in a hard roll in Dublin and said he would prove his point when we got to Paris.
    We knew the trip was structured when we signed on for it. After all, wasn't that the point? We were neophyte travelers who had never been out of the country before. We would see as much as we possibly could in a limited amount of time. The death march was a trade-off for the benefits of having someone take care of us, tell us what to eat and when, direct us where to go and when to leave, interpret what was being said, tell us when our luggage was missing, and protect us from all those foreigners staring at us from the other side of the bus's tinted glass.
    As the bus picked up speed, the exit sign loomed majestically to our left, and everyone on the bus rolled their eyes, knowing what was to come. The German word for exit is Ausfahrt and every time we saw it, you could count on eighty-seven-year-old Mr. Fleck to say the same thing, “My mother doesn't allow me to use words like that.” I wanted to shout that his mother probably swam out to meet troop ships in the Crimean War, but my husband put his hand across my mouth and whispered, “It's the hard rolls talking.”
    The thing about tours is that it doesn't take long to size up your fellow passengers and label them. They are as stereotypical as characters out of an English mystery. The reason you get to know them so well is that the same group shows up on every guided tour you will ever take. Their faces and names will change, but the personalities are an integral part of tour travel.
    Riding in the front seat (always!) is the tour's Health Fairy. She's a retired English teacher from Boston who keeps a daily log on who is irregular and who “got back on track” during the night. Every morning there is a report on who has bacterial problems and where they got them. She speaks fluent pharmacy and carries a handbag the size of a dispensary. If you have swollen ankles, sore throat, motion sickness, poor circulation, constipation, burning eyes, or PMS, she's there for you.
    Seated just behind her is “Where's Mr. Babcock?” He is traveling alone. No one knows his first name. “Where's Mr. Babcock?” is all we ever hear. He has three cameras around his neck, a vest jammed full of film, a gym bag crammed with light meters, and a portable tripod. Every time we pass a tree, “Where's Mr. Babcock?” jumps out of his seat and asks the driver to stop so he can get a shot. When the bus makes a regular stop for “photo opportunities,” count on “Where's Mr. Babcock?” to hold up the entire tour before he reboards. In Garmisch, he shot three rolls of Ektachrome of a dog with one ear up.
    Two days ago, when “Where's Mr. Babcock?” defied the guide's instructions to line up to see Hadrian's Wall and later remained behind to photograph a man relieving himself on it, we voted on whether to leave him there. It was real close.
    Ben and his wife, Has-Ben Everywhere, are a couple from New Jersey. They have matched French luggage, and they informed everyone on their first day that they do not generally go on tours but arrange to have their own car and driver. They do not socialize a lot with the other group members. The only time they talk is to mention it's too bad we couldn't have “done Europe” when it was elegant. When they were there years ago, Venus de Milo had