Thanks Kismet for linking this story and reminding me of something I’d totally forgotten.
On my first trip to Europe, as a high-schooler in July 1976, our group spent a few days in Paris. We had lunch at some restaurant somewhere. I remember only that we ate outside, had spaghetti, and the old lady that ran the place loved Americans so much that she gave each of us a big hug and told us about the liberation.
I guess she’s dead by now. Or really, really old.
A night or two later, our Dutch guide, this big fat guy with long hair and a beard, took a few of us and a chaperone, this good-looking brunette from Idaho, to a small cafe, where a little old man played accordion, and his daughter with one leg shorter than the other sang songs. Later, the little old man pulled the chaperone’s bra out her sleeve and hung it from the ceiling. Only then did I notice all the bras hanging from the ceiling.
In retrospect, it might have been the moment that part of me decided Europe would be an interesting place to live.
