The man sitting across from me on the train from Paris to Copenhagen was French. He was glaring at me with real hatred in his eyes and slapping my knees. “You Americans are shit.” The four other people in our train compartment were at first nervously trying to ignore my situation, except for Barbara, one of my two traveling companions.

“Stop looking at him!”  It was a difficult order since he and I were knee to knee in the small compartment, and after all, he was slapping my knees.

Although the French men we had met so far were by turn audacious and occasionally obnoxious in their forwardness and sexually-charged flirting, this one was definitely not flirting.  I do remember one Frenchman who kept thrusting his pelvis at us while walking down the Champs-Elysees.  Charming.

Because of my keen observation skills, I don’t believe he cared for Americans, and I was the object of his current focus –a real-live American right in front of him.  Perhaps, while liberating Paris, an American had also liberated his girlfriend?

As I said, for a time everyone in our compartment ignored him.  Then one of the men stood up to confront him.  I can usually take care of myself, but I was happy for his help.  He merely glared at the man to make him stop.  I must admit, he was an imposing figure.

Now that the Frenchman was cowering in the corner, the man who had defended me began to chat with me. He was very nice looking in a big brawny way, but he had the kindest face and gentle brown eyes.

He was Persian, a former Olympic wrestler and currently a bodyguard for the Shah of Iran, Reza Pahlavi. He was very soft-spoken and not scary at all; what we used to call a gentleman, or maybe that was even before my time.

While all this was happening in our compartment, my other traveling companion, Marilyn, had gone to the dining car to get the three of us some drinks and sandwiches.  She returned red-faced and agitated.  The cook in the kitchen had tried to touch her in an inappropriate manner, to put it delicately.  She was having none of it, but at least she had our sandwiches and drinks.  Marilyn was a tough cookie.

This was turning out to be an exciting train ride.  One of the first of many, shall we say, “interesting” experiences with men on my first European vacation.

More to come.

The End