My Misguided Tour

The phone rang often those last few days, and I began to know my people well. The Judge and Mr. Dignity and the Well-Traveled Widow wanted assurances of single rooms. Mr. Efficiency asked for a list of hints to travelers and I knowingly read excerpts from nine guide books. I grew to hate these guide books because their arbitrary rating of preferred hotels seemed to imply that all nonlisted hotels were flea bags.

"I don't care for myself," said Mr. Efficiency, "but my wife can't find that Paris hotel in Joseph or Fielding."

The tour left San Francisco in a confusion of goodbys, and once aboard I settled back to worry about nothing. In New York next morning, I proudly checked in at the home office of the wholesaler to report my group present and accounted for. He nervously lit his cigarette on the filtered end and said, " Europe is crowded. There is a shipping strike in Paris. Hotel reservations have been affected all over the Continent. Guests aren't checking out." Five of the 10 hotels on our already once revised list had to be changed to "or similar," as the travel brochures put it. He smiled when he said, "Of course it should make no difference to your people. One bed is as good as another." He bore our troubles very well.

As we waited for our Lisbon-bound plane I told the members of the changes in their accommodations. I put it as cheerily as I could. Mail would be collected at every stop—"and," I said, "after all, we're on our way to see Europe and not to spend our time in hotel rooms, eh, gang?" They looked at me inscrutably. Our flight was called, and suddenly I realized I had a new and personal problem. I had been handling so many tickets, manifests and extraneous papers that I had managed to lose my own passport. Then I remembered I had checked my raincoat in an airport locker and my passport was in the raincoat pocket. By the time I recovered it the engines were warming up and my members were looking more inscrutable than ever.

We arrived in Lisbon at 7 on a clear, sun-streaked morning, the terraced hills and ancient towers like an exciting stage set from the plane's windows. At the hotel I went briskly to the front desk. A bath and a change of clothes were the first item on everyone's agenda. "It is impossible," the desk clerk, said. "Check-out time is 12 o'clock. You are much too early. At this moment I can give you one room, which, of course, I assume you will take for yourself. The other rooms will be assigned to your group as they become available."

This was shocking news. The Relatives thought so too. They were peering over my shoulder at the empty registration pad. Somehow I had had the feeling that the Relatives expected the best: a corner room, a front seat, an audience with the Pope in Rome.

I sent them sightseeing—at 8 a.m. To my surprise, it worked: this was their first sight of Europe and they all enjoyed it. And shortly after one o'clock every member had a room and every Relative a complaint. "My room doesn't have a bath," Auntie said. "My room doesn't have a toilet," said Sister-in-law.

We worked it out. Some rooms were assigned as "connecting baths," though the connection was across the hall. My wife and I took a room without bath, and a few members were persuaded to live without conveniences for "just a couple of nights." By the end of the afternoon I was a bundle of jangling nerves held together with a fixed stage smile. But early that evening a tremendous spray of flowers was delivered to our room, and I felt bad about having talked harshly to the hotel management. It's wonderful what a kind thought can do.

Two days later we left for Madrid. Mr. Efficiency had collected loose escudos (scooties, we called them—worth 3�� each) as a donation to the local guide. At the airport the guide refused. "You will need this money for Spanish landing tax," he said. It was really a Portuguese airport tax, but our guide preferred to blame the Spaniards. I preferred to blame my U.S. advisers who had neglected to mention that every departure from a country cost an average of $1 per person—since we were scheduled for seven such exoduses, the total would come to nearly $250.

We arrived in downtown Madrid at 4 in the afternoon, and once again I found myself arguing with a hotel employee, this time the assistant manager. "But, se�or," he exclaimed, "you have come at a terrible time. In Spain we enjoy the siesta. Check-out time here is 5 o'clock. Only a few of your rooms are available."