Member-only story
If Humor is a Passport
Then laughter is the right of way
Most of my travel gaffes are verbal and situational, given I’m a globetrotter with foreign-language impairments and a suitcase full of comedic compensation.
But sometimes, a joke can save your life.
On vacation near Munich, my husband’s cousin, Thomas, vacated his one-bedroom rental, so we could stay there a few nights. The generosity didn’t extend downstairs to the strict, octogenarian, and protective owner, living in the attached lower unit with a shared stairwell.
We, loud and oblivious Americans, ran copious loads of stinky travel laundry, and then locked ourselves inside the shared basement. We emptied profuse waste, filling up the shared bins. On the first night, pounding knocks rattled Thomas’ front door.
Pajama-cozy after sight-seeing, we startled from lounging in front of a high-octane American movie.
“You’re the double black belt!” I pointed at my no-guff husband.
He pointed back at me, and didn’t have to say: the mouthy-charming-yet-annoying punster is the better sacrifice.
Volume-reduction and stalling didn’t stop the hinge-rattling knocks, so we tiptoed over. As I chameleoned against the wall to provide moral support, my husband creaked open the door.
