Saving my stories so I can recall them after my brain can't . . .
May, 1976. Monte Carlo. Tourist hotel.
The hotel was not fancy but it did have a restaurant, one with a maitre d'. A maitre d' who asked me if I wanted to share a table. In the midst of a solo trip across Europe with a Eurail pass, I was in the habit of chatting with strangers so I agreed.
I am not sure what I thought the maitre d's motives were. I probably did not think he had a motive. If I'd thought about it, I probably figured he was playing concierge or matchmatcher. It didn't take me long to figure out his game was fundraising. I was twenty-six and traveling with two outfits, so I can pretty much guess what I was wearing. I don't know what would have made him think I was a rich American, but maybe any American was seen as rich in those days. Even in Monte Carlo.
He led me to a table where I found a guy. Not a heartbreaker but he did have an interesting story. He was from Lebanon which was then in the throes of a civil war. He was living in the hotel and broadcasting back to Lebanon. He was on the Christian side. I enjoyed listening to his story all the while waiting for a request for a donation, which in the days of traveler's checks and no ATMs could not happen even if I wanted it to. It never came to that. A friend of his, newly arrived from Lebanon, joined us.
From then on, I was an eavesdropper on their conversation. I don't remember the entire story, but I do recall the gist of it. My tablemate said he wanted to return to Lebanon. His visitor said that was impossible. And, this part I do remember very clearly. His visitor said, "If you come back, you'll never get out of the airport. They kill you as soon as you step off the plane."
Now I thought I only had one rule in life (never wearing white after Labor Day - well two if you count before Memorial Day separately), but I realized I did actually have another rule. Never eat dinner with someone marked for death by Arab terrorists, any terrorists actually. Since the situation hadn't come up often growing up in Philadelphia, avoiding dining with terrorists had never been a big problem in my life. I accepted that it could happen inadvertently, but from that day on I made it a rule. I finished my meal, excused myself, and returned to my room happy to be away from the man who was marked for death.
Back in my room, I settled in to read, happy to be away from the controversial duo. And then I heard them in the hallway. And then in the room next door. I spent the next hour or so conjuring images of my becoming collateral damage in the Lebanese Civil War. In the morning, I realized how silly that seemed. Worrying about being blown up just because I had the room next to a terrorist. Really. And then years later, I saw Munich. I am not always paranoid.
