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arms. No matter what you buy, they bought the same thing ten years ago for a fraction of what you paid.
    Everyone tries to stay out of the path of Joan and Bud Whiner. Excuse the pun, they're a pair-of-noids to draw to. Every morning we are treated to their litany of complaints. “Well, they gave us the servants' quarters again” is a staple. The food is inedible, the service unacceptable, and the tour company is going to hear from them. In Rome, they felt the church tour was tilted in favor of Catholic churches.
    I cannot say Mr. Murchison's name without whispering it. Everyone else does. When the group rendezvoused in New York, he had taken a few belts to “relax.” We never saw him tense. He is “over-served” in every country we visit. Somehow, he can't be categorized as an “ugly American.” You have to be conscious to be that. He simply is seeing Europe through the bottom of a Jack Daniels bottle. If he would remain quiet, we could put a handle in his mouth and check him through as another piece of luggage. But Mr. Murchison likes to sing when he's had a few drinks. In Limerick, Ireland, he stood up in the Cathedral of St. Mary and sang “When Irish Eyes Are Smiling.” In Amsterdam, when we toured the red-light district where the prostitutes sit in store windows on chairs, he warbled “How Much Is That Doggie in the Window?” In Venice, he nearly fell into the canal singing “O Sole Mio.”

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    He didn't sing in Lucerne. However, he did put his cigarette out in the fondue.
    The couple I like are Mary Jo and her mother, til. Like us, it's their first trip out of the country and they're thrilled with everything they see. When Lil saw her “first Irish dog,” she could barely speak. Mary Jo is keeping a diary right down to the menus.
    In the back of the bus are the poor Jacksons. They don't have first names either. They're a couple from Oklahoma who are being followed by their luggage across Europe. But not close enough. They have been wearing the same clothes for seventeen days.
    I relate to the Jacksons. That stupid jumpsuit that Sylvia Suitcase recommended is so stiff from wearing, it could walk to Rome by itself. Not only that, I discovered you have to have the talents of a stripper to wear it.
    On a plane en route from New York to London, I was in the restroom when the captain announced we were experiencing turbulence and should return to our seats. Before I could get it all together, my jumpsuit dropped to thirty-two thousand feet in a pool of water while my body leveled off at thirty-four-thousand feet. When I finally emerged from the bathroom, my husband observed, “You don't look good enough to have been in there that long.”
    “Don't start with me,” I said. “I just dropped my belt down the commode.”
    “What's the red mark on your forehead?”
    “I hit it on the doorknob.”
    “What were you doing down there?”
    “You wouldn't believe it if I told you.”
    There should be a label in jumpsuits that shows a glass of water with an X through it.
    Actually, the bus ride in between the touring is rather relaxing. There is a myth that guided tours are a piece of cake—nothing to do but wait for your travel guide to count the luggage, open doors for you, and pass out tickets to your next adventure. That's not true. We have a lot to do.
    To begin with, we have to remember our bus number. On a twenty-one-day tour, you could average thirty-five buses, each from a different country and each with a different driver. If you are in Germany, the bus driver will be Asian. If you are in Spain, the driver will be Russian. If you are touring France with a French driver, you are on the wrong bus.
    Today, we are on a German bus with an Italian driver. He is the first foreigner we've seen close up since we left home. Mary Jo got his autograph and picture. His English is spoken like a recording. “My name is Luigi,” he says into a microphone that is inches from his teeth. “Remember that and