March 10, 2022
Bizarre Travel Stories
In this section, Driftwood writers share the most bizarre and unusual incidents that they have encountered on vacation.
People Following Me?
In 2015, my family and I, along with some of my aunts, uncles, and cousins, took a cruise ship vacation. On the second day of the vessel’s voyage, I decided to explore the ship. With a deck-plan map in my hand, I made my way out of my stateroom, anxious to uncover what the cruise liner had to offer. The hallways were vast, and I had the intention of “getting lost” in the ship. Happily strolling about, I suddenly noticed a small group of people behind me. They walked with boldness and speed, and they were looking directly at me, pointing and laughing. They were speaking Spanish, or perhaps Portuguese, so I did not have a clue about what they were saying. After wandering through the ship for a while, I met a dead end, and I found that they were still following me. These intrusive strangers must have come to the belief that I was stupidly lost, so they began laughing and making even more gestures, still talking in a language foriegn to me. The corridors mostly led to cabins and staterooms, so at first I thought they were just going to their rooms, but I was wrong. In frustration, I turned around, passing by them in the opposite direction. They began laughing again, looking me dead in the face, so I decided to make an escape to where there were restaurants and large crowds of people. They stopped harassing me then. At last it was over. What an uncomfortable experience!
—Conner Tuthill, Travel Editor
Elevator Blues
This story isn’t necessarily “bizarre,” but it is definitely a tale of two cultures coming together. Several years ago, I was traveling to Italy with a choir from Wisconsin. On our first morning in Florence, a group of us were waiting for the elevator, when we heard a large clank. The doors opened a scant few inches, and we peered through the gap to see an Italian man looking back at us, wide-eyed. The elevator hadn’t quite made it fully up to our floor, either, so he was about eye-level with our waists.
Our choir director swooped over, arms wide, and herded us toward the stairwell, telling the man in English that we would notify the hotel staff. I quickly surmised that he spoke about as much English as we spoke Italian, since as our group thinned out, he started to wail—and I mean, wail. The poor guy was terrified, and rightfully so! I ducked under the director’s arm and went back and sat down on the floor with him. Remembering that my mother had told me Spanish was close enough to Italian that she could understand it, I started talking to him in Spanish. I introduced myself and told him the elevator wouldn’t fall, that it was just stuck, and my group had gone to get help. He calmed down and remained tearfully silent, so I kept up the barrage of Spanish and phrasebook Italian, telling him where we were from and about our choir, how Florence was my favorite place we’d visited so far, and how much I hated singing “Come Again Sweet Love.” He didn’t say much back, but he nodded encouragingly and gave me his full attention—all the better to distract him from his predicament.
Several minutes later, we heard another clank, and the elevator rose. The doors whooshed open, freeing my new friend. When I’d last visited them, my Honduran family had gently made fun of me for my initial American reserve compared to their more demonstrative culture, and since I’d noticed similiarities between them and the Italians I’d met thus far, I fully expected a hug and a smile. However, this lovely man was so grateful I’d stayed with him, he scooped me up, swung me around in a circle, delivered the European double-cheek kiss con gusto, and repeated “grazie” more times than I can count. I didn’t mind being moved around by this stranger in the slightest—I could tell it came from a genuine rush of emotion. Soon thereafter, he went about his day, obviously glad to have survived the Elevator of Doom, and I went about mine. But he remains my most vivid memory of Florence, and it always makes me smile.
—Tracy Fernandez Rysavy, Driftwood advisor