My best friend at university is from the USA. He’s studying in England, but over Christmas, his family is visiting. Since I’m a Londoner, I decided to play tour guide for a day and plan a quick run-through of all the tourist spots.

At one point, we’re walking past a major central street to head to where the horse guards are. In doing so, we pass Downing Street.

Friend’s Dad: “Why is that road locked up?”

Me: “That’s Downing Street. That’s where our Prime Minister works and lives. Think of it like the White House.”

Friend’s Dad: “Huh.”

Me: “That’s why there are police outside with guns. It’s one of the very few times you’ll see guns in the UK out on the street like that.”

Friend’s Dad: “Oh. Do you all have to conceal your weapons here?”

Friend: “Dad, no, I told you. They don’t have guns here.”

Friend’s Dad: “No guns?”

Me: “Well, we have gun clubs for enthusiasts. My grandad is a member and took me shooting on a big range once, but the guns are never allowed to leave the club.”

Friend’s Dad: “No… guns? But, how do you defend yourself?”

Me: “From what?”

Friend’s Dad: “From other guns!”

Friend: “Dad! We’ve been over this! That’s not really a thing here. There’s knife crime, but—”

Friend’s Dad: “—Well, there you have it! How do you bring a gun to a knife fight?”

Friend: “You… don’t? Guns aren’t part of the culture here.”

Me: “Yeah… guns make me nervous, anyway.”

Friend’s Dad: “No wonder these Brits lost against us.”

Friend: “Dad, they’re just not used to seeing guns.”

Friend’s Dad: “Imagine being so not used to seeing guns that the sight of one makes you nervous!”

Me: “I know! Isn’t it wonderful! Anyway, we’re coming to the horse guard’s area, so…”

I go straight into my explanation of the next tourist spot, leaving my friend’s dad flummoxed as to how his apparent burn got turned into a compliment. Overall, he was a friendly guy and enjoyed the trip, but good LORD did that man like his guns.

I’m giving the usual safety speech for my group on the White-Water Rapids Tour.

Me: “Alright, everyone, expect a lot of turbulence. Keep your feet inside the raft, listen to commands, and—”

A hand shoots up from the back.

Tourist: “Will we get wet?”

There’s a ripple of laughter. I chuckle too, assuming he’s joking.

Me: “Uh… yes. Very.”

Tourist: “No, seriously. I need to know if I’ll get wet.”

The laughter dies, and I realize he’s dead serious.

Me: “Sir… this is white water rafting. The raft will hit waves. Water will splash. That’s… the entire thing.”

Tourist: “Okay, but which seat gets the least wet? I’ll take that one.”

Me: “…None of them.”

Tourist: “What do you mean none? There has to be one. Like the middle seat on a log flume.”

Me: “This isn’t Disneyland. There’s no ‘dry seat.’ This is a river. It does what it wants.”

Tourist: “This is absolutely not what I was sold. The brochure didn’t say anything about getting soaked!”

Me: “The brochure is literally titled ‘Conquer the Rapids.'”

He stomps off to complain to my manager. After the tour heads out, I find the manager by the gear shed and vent. The manager sighs.

Manager: “A few more years here, and you’ll realize how sadly common that is. My first year I had someone ask what we did with all the rocks after ‘the ride.'”

Me: “…What?”

Manager: “I told him we let all the air out and pack them up every evening.”

I’m guiding a rafting group on a river. We’re finishing up, and I’m guiding everyone to the jetty we use at the end of the tour. One of the tourists looks confused.

Tourist: “This isn’t where we started? How’d we get here?”

I spent ten years conducting English-speaking tours of the Colosseum in Rome, Italy. This was the one question I got from a tourist that stumped me in all that time:

Tourist: “Is this where Jesus fought the lions?”

Me: “I… uh… no.”

Tourist: *Disappointed.* “Oh.”

The tourist’s spouse then chastised her:

Tourist’s Spouse: “Don’t be ridiculous. Everyone knows that happened in Jerusalem.”

Tourist: “Oh yeah!”

Some of the other tourists are chuckling at the interaction. One of the teenage boys says:

Teenage Boy Tourist: “That sounds like a bad-a** movie!”

I couldn’t help but agree!

My mother was a tour guide in a town in the English Midlands. One of her most popular tours was the local abbey, a large church built in the 17th century, but with parts dating back to the 11th century.

She was showing a group around, which included a couple from Fort Worth in Texas. She was explaining about the bell tower, and how it’s accessed by a very narrow and rather worn spiral staircase. The Texan Gentleman asked:

Tourist: “Why doesn’t it have an elevator?”

My mother, misunderstanding him, assumed he was asking why a lift hadn’t been installed in recent years, and explained:

Mum: “Well, the church is a Grade 1 listed building, so they can’t simply install a lift into the tower because of the damage it would do to the architecture, and because the costs would also be astronomical.”

Tourist: “No, why didn’t they include an elevator when they originally designed and built the church?”