The Tour Guides: Marlene

The tour group we used (based in the states) had someone travel with us to England, and help coordinate our hotel stays, excursions, and so forth. Her name (for the purposes of this post) is Marlene. She met us in the Chicago airport, and after mentioning to us there was another young couple in the group, explained what would come next in her strong Chicagoan accent (while I pondered what it meant that she thought we were a young couple):

"Now once we get on the plane, after about half an hour they will come through with a drink service. At about eight o'clock, they will come through with dinner. After that is through they will turn out the lights in the airplane, and that is when you should try to sleep." I literally cannot tell you how grateful I was for the information.

Just as we were about to take off, an older gentleman (let's call him Harry) came and found his seat a few rows in front of us, but in the center seats. He was carrying a bag with the name of our tour group on it. And sure enough, as soon as he sat, Marlene came down the aisle to speak to him. "Harry, where WERE you?!?! You almost missed the plane!!! I was paging you at the gate and everything! You almost didn't make it!" I was entertained but afraid now to make a misstep once we began our tour lest Marlene bite my head off.

Once we got to England, Marlene found the bus to take us to our hotel. On the ride in to town, she covered some important information: "Okay the temperature here right now is eighteen degrees." She paused to allow for our incredulous response. None came. "Now, of course, that is centigrade, hee hee. They use centigrade over here. But here's how you convert it to Fahrenheit. You double it and add thirty. So let's say it's eighteen degrees. You double that. What's two times eighteen? Yes, thirty-six. Then add thirty. What's thirty-six plus thirty?...Yes, correct. Sixty-six. So that's how you convert it. Let's try it again. Let's say it's twenty-one degrees..." And she proceeded to step for step explain it again. She continued to spoonfeed us information in this way the entire trip, but I believe she earned her paycheck on the morning our group left for France.

We had been instructed to leave our bags outside our hotel rooms at 7:30am, and to be ready to board the bus to St. Pancras station. (By the by, none of the Londoners I asked could explain why their bus station was named after an organ.) Anyways, at about 7:35, MLB and I were down in the lobby waiting to eat breakfast; our bags were outside our door already. Just then, I heard the 'ding' of the elevator and high-pitched old man's voice cry out, "Can you help me? I locked myself out of my room."
I turned my head enough to see Harry's head leaning out of the elevator--oh, sorry--the lift. I thought little about it, not surprised that Harry would do such a thing, and knowing the concierge could help.

But people, including MLB, were looking intently at him still as I looked away from him and faced MLB. The looks on their faces were a mix of pity, embarrassment, and incredulity while at the same time I could see they were all stifling laughs. A few people murmured to each other things I could not understand, so I gave MLB the best "What is it?" look I had.

"He's locked out of his room and he's in his underwear."
"No way."
"I'm serious."

Marlene had missed most of this until a member of our group burst out, "Um, Marlene? Can you help Harry?" And off she went. She had the fortune of getting another key (which you need by the way to make the lift go up at all) and escorting Harry back to his room in his tighty-whities...and without his toupee.