Sorry this post is late, but we've been spending some time in a cabin in the Smoky Mountains, plus my computer has been acting up.
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The next day, it
was raining. We headed for Neuschwanstein Castle at Fussen. We located a road
that seemed to lead up to the castle, although we could not, of course, read
the signs. We headed up. About half way up, we began to realize there were no
other cars on this road. Only horse-drawn carts filled with people. We turned
around, got back down without being busted, and found us a horse-drawn cart of
our very own to ride up on. The first
stop was at the back, with a beautiful lake, so we got off and pictured away.
We got a lot of good pictures of the beautiful back of the castle, and then the
rain set in hard. Barbara was too worn
out to walk around to the front, and the driving rain just finished her
off. We loaded on a cart headed down,
and I just imagined how grand the front of that castle must have been. But we
will never know. We got off the cart in the driving rain, loaded into our car,
and headed for Austria.
Now, all those pictures you see of beautiful,
steep round mountains, with cute little men in their cute little pants, neat
little pointy hats, walking stick in hand, were for real! We saw a lot of those
guys. I had figured that would be like the Arkansas hillbilly stereotype, with
their overalls, pointed hat, corncob pipe, Grandma dipping snuff in a rocker,
several hounds asleep on the porch. I have actually seen a place like that, in
eastern Tennessee. From a train. Take one or two of those requirements off, and
it would have nailed me good in Wing.
Driving on through
the mountains and several small towns, we found a guest house beside a steep,
beautiful mountain. The nice lady could speak only German, but the only other
guest stepped forward, interpreting her German into perfect, even southern,
English. Talking just like we talked in Arkansas.
Well, by now I'm
sure you realize, Barbara was not about to just let that lie. She had to know
what was going on.
He was soon our
friend, and over a glass of orange juice, she grilled him good. Yes, he had
been to America. Still goes regularly. No, he had never been to the South. I
went into my hillbilly mode, pulling out,
"We shore are much obliged to you-all," throwing in a "feller" now and
then, even reaching way back and came up with a "youens'." He
couldn't speak hillbilly, but that was about the only thing he couldn't speak.
I think it finally helped him realize we were harmless.
Finally, he just
sat there and looked us over good for a long time, poured another glass of
orange juice, and began to tell us the most fantastic story we have heard in
all our travels. His name was Rio. He was a citizen of the world, he said,
claiming no country as his home. He was born in a middle eastern country, and
his family moved from one country to another as he grew up, and he picked up
one language after another. He was a little dark, a little white, and could
pass for about any nationality.
After becoming a
pilot in the Portuguese Air Force, he was trained in regional dialects, for any
country. His job was to travel about, assuming the identity of anybody from
anywhere.
He asked us if we
had a certain stamp on our car that was required for travel in Austria. Of
course, we did not. Agreeing to show us where we could buy one, we all got in
our car and headed out. We bought the sticker, and drove around for a long
time, just seeing the village and talking. He explained that when you violated
a traffic law in Europe, a flash would go off, and they had your picture. The
fine would be waiting for us when we turned our rental car in.
Well, I could
already remember a bunch of flashes going off, usually when we were confused
and wandering about, which was most of the time. I dreaded seeing our rental
car bill.
He was at the
guest house, he said, to meet his buddies, climb the mountain. Then they would
spend a day drinking beer and playing cards on top, then climb down. He currently lived with his wife in Germany.
After arriving
back at our lodging, he offered to buy us dinner. Well, who can refuse that?
And, Barbara was nowhere near through with him yet.
We sat down. He
offered to buy me a beer. I didn't like beer, so I said no thanks.
He looked at me hard. "You won't drink a
beer with me, Pat?" I could tell he took that personally. I drank beer.
After we had eaten
a great meal and he had a bunch more beers, he began to really loosen up, and
tell us more.
During the first
Gulf War, He was recruited by the US Air Force because he spoke perfect Arabic.
He was sent to Colorado Springs for training. His most fearful moments ever, he
said, was the night he and his buddies wandered into the wrong part of Colorado
Springs by accident. Sounded a lot like stories we had heard a world away, in
Australia.
When He got to
Iraq, he assumed his Arabic identity. Those same buddies arrested him one
night, and he smiled and said, "It's me, guys." They wouldn't believe
him, and he had to show them his US Air Force pants, on under his robe, before
they would let him go.
Currently, he
said, he makes regular trips to the eastern US near Washington, D.C. The CIA
was never mentioned, but we understood..
The next morning,
he walked us out to our car. He had a small lecture for Barbara. "You
travel far too lightly about the world. People will entrap you. You should
never have let me in your car yesterday."
"We had you outnumbered."
He laughed. "I wasn't worried." He
waved Barbara's camera away. No pictures, no address, no e-mail address.
"But I will e-mail you." We're still waiting.
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