Best and worst travel memories? (page 1 of 4)

Hi everyone,

Who’d like to share their best and worst travel memories in a few lines? For me, it’s watching the TAJ MAHAL at sunrise and getting chased by dogs at the top of a mountain pass in GREECE on the way back from ISTANBUL. THANKS GUYS

Considering I'm still on my 'trip',

The worst memory, from last Saturday:

My fiancé and I went to the clinic for another bout of bronchitis (I collect them). When we got back, two hours later, our living room had caught fire, my TV exploded. We found our dog dead from asphyxiation. The worst nightmare of my life...

My best memory? On Sunday, all our friends—expats and Turks—came to help us clean the living room, the furniture, the walls, etc. Without them, we wouldn’t have known what to do.

This will be the most beautiful memory I’ll keep of Turkey: the help from our friends.

Now, we’re learning to live without our baby. Luckily, we’re well supported...

Nil, who’s completely devastated

hi Nil, just another example of how happiness is so close to misfortune. isabelle.

Hi Nil, Still another misfortune that can’t be helping the stress you were starting to feel from missing your family 🙁 (and those hugs from your dad 🙂).

Unfortunately, the dog paid the price, and I’m sad about it since this is my third one—I adore them. The first two also died in terrible circumstances, and it took me a while to get over it.

About the TV, a small clarification: a cathode-ray tube TV doesn’t explode—it implodes. I know, it’s not great, but there’s a vacuum inside the tube, and the implosion often causes a short circuit that can start a fire. Long live flat screens! Though they often sting us on the price, and that *does* make me explode. So there’s still a risk 😏

Hi there!

My best memory:

A night spent at the top of Rocher-de-Naye, in Switzerland. Swiss fondue, wine, two Swiss folks, a Quebecer, a Czech... an unforgettable evening with sunrise and sunset over the Alps, Lake Geneva, and Mont Blanc far on the horizon...

My worst: a minor elective surgery in a German hospital, where not all the nurses spoke either French or English... luckily, I have a decent grasp of German, but still... home felt far away for that week...

Have a great day!

So tough getting hospitalized abroad!!

My worst memory was the first time I went to Senegal. I was really tanned and looked like a Lebanese woman. I was waiting for the *car rapide* to leave, and my hand was hanging outside. A Senegalese *mama* jumped on me, insulting me, and dug her nails into my hand—she even tore off a piece of skin! I didn’t understand a thing. The *car rapide* left, and later someone explained that Senegalese people didn’t like Lebanese people. Oh well!

Best memory? There are so many! I’d say walking the Camino de Santiago around 5 AM, leaving from Cebreiro. There was this immense sea of clouds with incredible colors that lasted over 3 hours. It was divine, surreal—a pure wonder of nature. I wish everyone could experience it.

Only when traveling, otherwise it’s impossible to keep track since we each have a massive dream library: _ Thirty years ago in Mexico: three days in prison for sleeping in a Zócalo (I think that’s what village squares are called, but my memory’s fading😕) and refusing the "offers" to sleep at the school with a gentleman from the police force _On a bus in India: sitting on my wooden bench by the window, getting the red juice of a betel quid splattered right in my face, spat out vigorously by the passenger in front of me🏴‍☠️

A wonderful memory: the impromptu concert by six musicians from Karachi at the top of Bolan Pass, while we were eating a juicy orange alone with the ochre mountain as our horizon. They’d screeched to a halt in a cloud of dust, leapt out of their car like devils in gray robes—we were so scared!—and it turned out to be so magical. Dom.

a vast dream library:

I think with this new French word, you’ve just summed up every traveler’s passion 😮—and for that, it really should be in the dictionary.🤪 Anyway, it already exists online since it’s called VF 🙂

Aren’t my musicians from Bolan Pass just amazing?

For your musicians, all you need to add is a bit of your own music and it’s magical:

http://www.zanorg.com/prodperso/indian.htm

I can't add the music because it would be the sound of fear pounding in my ears, so it's not exactly melodic. And afterward, the fleeting moment had passed, and all that's left—it's true—is the magic that slipped into my treasure trove of dreams, and I can't even lend it to you😕

The worst: In Cancun: a Mexican guy shoves me against him on a bus and "kisses" me by force... it was so violent and disgusting.... by the way, I hated Cancun...

The best: There are so many, it's so hard to choose!! I'd say a dream night with a handsome stranger, walking on the beach under the stars and... somewhere on the Pacific coast...

I can't even imagine!...

Worst memory:...getting lost in the streets of Valencia, Spain during a language-stay trip! I was only 13 and spoke very little Spanish! I wandered around for 3 hours looking for Plaza de la Virgen!...around 11 PM! Total panic! I finally found someone who spoke French! Phew! Thankfully, there was a happy ending!

Best memory! It was two years ago, watching a sunset while sailing on the Nile! A moment of unparalleled serenity that still stands out today!..

Great memories among so many others: San Andrés Xecul (Guatemala) at sunset for the light that flooded the facade of the unusual church, and also for the sounds and smells: clap-claps of women preparing corn tortillas and the scent of wood fires....... Still in Guatemala, waking up in the Petén jungle near Sayaxché to the sound of howler monkeys

Dakar, Léopold Sédar Senghor Airport on 20/05/03, it's 11 PM, and we're waiting to board our flight back to France. I'm with my dad, my Senegalese sister, and my mom, who's 100% disabled in a wheelchair—she's had Parkinson's for 15 years.

We're called, go through the final check, and board the bus to the plane.

After ten minutes waiting in the wind and nighttime cold, the pilot comes out of the plane and shouts from the gangway that he never requested boarding.

Everyone heads back to square one in the departure lounge.

Some people wait patiently, while others even leave the international zone and come back with total impunity. It's chaos. Nothing to eat, no drinks since everything’s closed at this hour, and the airport staff couldn’t care less. They’ve done their hours, and that’s that.

The loudspeakers announce a 3-hour wait with no further details.

After three endless hours, they tell us we can board. Round two: we head back to the aircraft, and the pilot comes out again, loudly announcing: *mandatory passenger check and baggage identification*. We Europeans comply willingly, but the Senegalese passengers don’t understand and get angry.

30 minutes later, the pilot comes out again and says there’s no way the plane is taking off—something’s wrong...

Back to square one, with insults I won’t repeat. My mom was in bad shape.

30 minutes later, we’re told the flight will leave at 8 AM due to an unsolvable technical issue for now.

All passengers sleep on the floor, quietly and with dignity. I take care of my mom, who’s in terrible shape sitting up when she should be lying down.

At 7 AM, we board again with another full check ordered by the pilot—he personally verifies everything (baggage ID, documents, etc.), something I’ve never seen in all my years of flying. This time, we finally take off. Over the intercom, the pilot explains he had to delay the flight because a slide lighting lamp was out of order, and maintenance had already left. He preferred to depart at a time when daylight made the slide lighting unnecessary.

5.5 hours later, we arrive in Paris. I suffered for my mom. I had to make a one-day stopover in Paris so she could rest at a hotel before catching another flight to Strasbourg.

I’m not angry at anyone—the pilot knew he had to be firm to ensure proper safety.

I wouldn’t wish this experience on anyone. Roger.

My worst memories were in Nicaragua, in the slums—a child taking a hard blow to the head from his brother because he hadn’t brought back enough money. The child looking at me with tears in his eyes, I could see the suffering in his desperate gaze... yet such inner strength that the tears streamed down his face, and he said nothing, just cried silently while staring at me. It was horrifying; I was paralyzed, a lump in my throat and stomach, an unbearable feeling of not being able to hold the gaze of that 7- or 8-year-old kid...

My best memories... phew... so many. Every trip brings me so much—the beauty of the beaches in New Caledonia, chilling out and smoking, the birth of a sincere friendship with a Peruvian woman, the tears and laughter of women and children in Nicaragua, the songs of women in Ukraine that give you chills and bring tears to your eyes, Machu Picchu...

Take care... Aud

Hi Audrey, I don’t have any bad memories from my travels. Actually, we only keep the good ones—it’s just human nature. Besides, I don’t hold onto useless things. I’m not one to hold grudges, and I slip away when I’m in the way or when I sense someone means me harm.

That said, I have an unforgettable memory from visiting a leper village about 1 km south of Mbour in Senegal. It’s a village entirely for people with leprosy, who live there with their families. Everyone knows this disease isn’t contagious. I was there with my wife. We walked through the sandy little alleys of the village. On either side, there were straw huts, and people with leprosy (men, women, and children) came up to us. They stepped out of their homes, and we touched them to say hello, to show our friendship—often carefully, since their wounds were open and bandaged somewhat haphazardly.

We did it naturally, and also to show them that their illness didn’t bother us. I won’t list all the injuries we saw. The villagers quickly took us in, and it was pure joy. Since my wife is a nurse, she quickly reassured me there was no risk of contagion. So we let ourselves go... I sent a child to buy a big bag of candy from a nearby shop in the village, and we started handing them out.

Then we went to have tea in one family’s courtyard. There was a crowd, I swear. Word of our presence spread fast through the village. I speak a little of their language, which made things easier. Everything was clean in their homes, and we were showered with gifts (masks, *cora*, peanuts, *pain de singe*, *bissap*, etc.). Tears in my eyes. Yes, I had them because I couldn’t hold back my emotions in the face of so much generosity—me, the tough guy back then. I found myself in an unusual situation, to say the least... I felt so small next to these people, who showed such vitality despite their wounds. The joy on the faces of these people, many of whom were missing fingers, hands, feet, and so on... Anyway, it was an unforgettable experience I’d recommend to anyone. You come out of it feeling humble. Were we the visitors of the year? I don’t think so, or at least I don’t dare to imagine.

Then it was time to leave, with a crowd of leper children all wanting to hold our hands to walk us to the village gates.

We came back the next day with big bags of rice to thank them for their hospitality. Same thing—tea, peanuts, and we had lunch with them.

It was an amazing memory. Since then, every time we go to Mbour, we visit that village. roger

Oh yeah, I’ve been there too!

I was with my brother, and we were supposed to take a flight at 8 PM. Once we arrived at the airport, problem—we were told our flight was at 1:30 AM. I was also feeling terrible, barely standing, some kind of malaria-like thing that wasn’t actually malaria... Anyway, we went back at 1:30 AM, the plane took off at 4 AM, and we had a connection in Rome for Marseille. We arrived in Rome with an 8-hour delay, so no connection left... I was on the verge of passing out and yelling to just get me home! A few hours later, they sent us to Milan, and from there, another flight took us back to Rome and then to Marseille. So, nearly a full day of flying just to get home. And the cherry on top? When we got to Marignane, we found out our luggage had gone to Brazil!!!!

Yep... travel is unpredictable from start to finish!

I’d say my worst memory was in Zermatt, Switzerland. Having rollerbladed for years, I tackled the asphalt road running down the mountain. No problem at first—until I hit a stretch dotted with drainage channels for water. Impossible to brake. I tried, but I wore my wheels down to the plastic. I sped downhill for a good kilometer until a cyclist finally caught up with me. I’d never had issues with downhill before, but now it’s become a phobia, especially since one side of the road had the mountain and the other a ravine.

As for my best memory—let’s see...! There are so many. I’d say a sunrise from St. Barth’s beach with my boyfriend. The colors were stunning, and the sea took on those same pinkish-orange hues. Even the clouds matched. It was truly breathtaking!

I don’t have many “worst” travel memories—probably because, aside from a few minor bouts of traveler’s diarrhea, nothing serious has ever happened to me.

But on reflection, one of my worst memories is actually tied to one of the best: On one of the prettiest and least-known Greek islands, Karpathos, I was hiking alone. Unfortunately, there wasn’t a single decent map available, and the only one I had was pretty inaccurate. I quickly got lost after following goat trails that led nowhere. I ran out of water and was dying of thirst. After a while, I started to panic a little, turned back, and ended up hiding my backpack in an easily recognizable spot so I could come back for it later. I retraced my steps and, after walking for a while, finally found a real path, which I followed to a small hut perched on a hill. I arrived there completely exhausted and parched. An old farmer saw me coming and, without exchanging a word (since he only spoke Greek, which I didn’t understand), invited me to sit down. He offered me fresh water, a black coffee, and some homemade cheese with a bit of bread. He sat down next to me without saying a word, and we admired the stunning bay and the entire northern part of the island unfolding before our eyes. Once I’d recovered, I was able to go back for my backpack and find the right way back.

Another similar adventure, also due to hiking with inadequate maps, but this time in the Lofoten Islands, northern Norway. I’d set off on a marked trail toward an unmanned mountain hut to spend the day. No problem when I arrived. The next day, though, there was a thick fog (and, of course, the midnight sun), making it impossible to tell day from night. I stayed there for over a day without really knowing how much time had passed. Then I took a poorly marked path that was supposed to lead down the other side toward a fjord. The trail was awful—downhill at first, then along the fjord—until it ended at a small shack. Just beyond it, a sheer cliff dropped straight into the fjord. No way to continue to the village. I knocked on the shack’s door, and a local fisherman, who had just woken up (it must’ve been around 7 AM—I had no idea what time it really was), answered. He was heading to the village by boat to do his shopping and luckily took me with him, since that was the only way out of there.

I must have a horseshoe up my butt…