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Charge of the Bus Brigade
When I see them tottering along the sidewalk later, they give me happy waves, their arms full of shopping bags. I wave guiltily; they've caught me in a cafe, recovering with a cappuccino and pondering how much more I've learned on this trip than in my usual solo wandering. Being on the bus with Banning and the local "step-on" guides narrating the city sights is like springing for the audio tour at a good museum: I actually know what I'm looking at. My sense of Prague is already much richer than of, say, Istanbul, where I once spent a pleasant but ignorant three days on my own. (Still, there are tradeoffs. In Turkey I managed to get myself invited to a killer cocktail party, which I don't see happening as a member of the bus brigade.)
33 Chicken Breasts
By Vienna, the pace and the high-80s heat have begun to tell on a few people. At our long morning tour of the Schoenbrunn Summer Palace, I end up pushing one woman around the gravel gardens in a wheelchair. Banning tells me to muscle the chair right through the crowd so the woman can hear better. She particularly wants me to get ahead of some outsiders who are mooching off our private guide. "We pay a lot of money for these local guides," Banning says. "If there are too many people around, my people can't hear."
  Tour guide Rita Banning leads her charges on a 14-day "Magnificant Cities of Central and Eastern Europe" tour. (Steve Hendrix - Twp) |
This may be the most pronounced characteristic of a successful tour guide, an utter lack of self-consciousness. Banning doesn't have a moment's hesitation plowing the mob into a crowded museum, green umbrella held high. Or having her hollered reminder about tomorrow's breakfast echo through the nave of St. Stephen's Cathedral.
"In this job, if you're shy you're in trouble," she says.
At first glance, Banning, a bustling fireplug given to wearing bright prints and dangling earrings, seems to cut a classic Loud American figure. But that begins to fade when you see how the Europeans love her. Time after time, I see stuffy bellmen and waiters drop their stern miens and beam as she hectors them about room keys and luggage delivery, always followed by "You're so nice to help us" or "You're doing an excellent job."
And that's how she salvages our dinner in Budapest.
"I'm sorry, I have no record of dinner for your group," the frosty desk clerk repeats for the third time, turning away. Banning switches tones.
"I'm so sorry we have made this mistake," she says. "It's clearly our fault."
He turns back. Glances at his watch.
"The executive chef will be here in 20 minutes. Let me see what we can do."
We race upstairs, split the guest list and phone every room, telling our charges that dinner will be delayed an hour because of "a backup in the dining room."
Banning works on the desk clerk and the chef. She suggests a choice of lamb, beef or goulash, sauteed vegetables and ice cream. Finally, they agree to rush out 33 chicken breasts, a yet-to-be determined vegetable and a dessert of the chef's choice (which turned out to be an unpeeled apple on a saucer).
It's fine. Most people enjoy the extra hour of rest, and the dining room is filled with excited chatter about the next evening's cruise on the Danube, the days to follow in Krakow and Warsaw and the emotional climax at Auschwitz.
"And hasn't the food been good," says our eldest, chipperest lady, polishing off her austere chicken.
Steve Hendrix will be online to discuss this story Monday at 2 p.m. during the Travel section's regular weekly chat.
