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. The four other people in the train compartment were, at first, nervously trying to ignore this, except for Barbara, one of my two traveling companions. She kept telling me to “Stop looking at him!” Our go-to solution wasn’t working.

Although the French men we had met so far were audacious and usually obnoxious in their forwardness and sexually-charged flirting, this one was definitely not flirting.

He began to slap my knee while yelling, “Americans shit, Americans shit.” 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 sitting knee-to-knee with him in a confined space. Perhaps, while liberating Paris, an American G.I. had also liberated his girlfriend.

As I said, for a time, everyone in our compartment was ignoring 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 had a kind 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.  He wrote his information on a scrap of paper and handed it to me, but I never saw him or tried to contact him again.  I learned that you cannot attach yourself to every interesting person you meet in your travels.

While 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 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 our 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