Four members of my family are on a two-day trip on a point-to-point daily excursion train, with a long stop at the destination for touristy-type doings. While most people who board at the main station, as we did, ride the same train both ways — or one way and take a bus for the return — we have opted to spend the night in a hotel after arrival and return by train the following day. The time and number of the return train are clearly noted on our tickets.

On the first leg of our trip, a photographer passes through, taking pictures of each person, couple, or group. Normally, they are printed and presented for sale shortly before the end of the run for those who won’t be on the train for the return, or on the train later for those who will be in their seats on the way back. Because we are not returning on that same train or by motor coach, the photographer (supposedly) notes which train we will be on for our return the following day. Great! My sons want copies, so we look forward to that; it’s pretty much a guaranteed sale.

On the train the following day, a photographer first passes through the train cars taking photos of those who are “new” to the train, and then they return to present the packets for potential sale, but ours is not in the bin. We are told that’s not a problem; it’ll be available at the photography studio at the train station.

After departing the train, my two sons and I head to the studio as instructed while my husband walks to the remote parking area to collect the car.

Attendant: “I’m sorry, your photos aren’t here. I’ll take your details and have the manager contact you. There are three trains a day a couple of hours apart, so the packet may have accidentally been sorted into the wrong bin. Do you have the card that you were given when the pictures were taken?”

Me: “No. Unfortunately, we’ve misplaced it.”

Attendant: “That’s okay. We should still be able to locate the pictures since we know which trains you were on. Are there any special features, besides three men and a woman, that would help identify the pictures?”

Me: “Well, the other man is bald on top with a white beard and long white hair; he’s often mistaken for Santa.”

Attendant: “Anything else?”

And here the three of us stand facing her: an imposing gentle giant with missing front teeth and a receding hairline, a heavily bearded, long-haired mountain-man-type guy, and me, a woman with a very short pixie cut, a large, purple facial birthmark, and a right eye that points to the side instead of ahead.

I asked myself if she really needed to ask that question, and then I provided the obvious specifics.

Later, we found and provided the code on the photographer’s card, but they claimed to have never located the photos. I suspect no one even tried.

I work at an aquarium near the touch pool; a simulated rock pool with crabs and sea anemones the kids can touch, situated right above the open topped Black Tipped Reef Shark and Moon Ray tank. That’s right, I said open topped. With about 1.3-metre-thick glass sides. It’s filled with water, sharks, and stingrays.

About three times a day I have this conversation:

Me: “Ma’am! Please do not dangle your baby over the shark tank!”

The parents were not impressed by my adherence to basic common sense. I got thrown incredulous looks, angry retorts, the lot. The crowning glory though was the dad who informed me:

Dad: “It’s fine, you can just jump in there after them.”

Me: “Sir, I am a 5ft 2′ minimum wage worker, you could not pay me to jump in shark infested water to save your baby that you just dropped.”

My husband used to work for an American company. We were invited to Presidents Week — a week-long beano for “high-fliers” at a five-star beach resort in Mexico.

One day, we went on a boat trip across a huge bay to an island, where we rode the most placid horses in the world to a waterfall-fed swimming hole and then on to a shallow beach for lunch, sunbathing, and a little light snorkelling, before returning to the boat. It was an okay day — pleasant enough.

Until, on the way back…

Out on the bay, a fluke (a whale’s tail) was spotted right in our path. Then another. And another, and another. A huge pod of humpback whales — around forty —was suddenly just… there.

It gets better. They started breaching — that “jump” up into the air, to come crashing back down into the water. They started small but built up and up until up to seven whales were fully out of the water at a time.

We kept our distance and just watched. It wasn’t safe (for us or the whales) to try to continue, as we had no idea where the next one was coming from. It was possibly the most exhilarating sight of my life.

My husband and I were quietly chatting with the English-speaking local guide and the crew. He’d been a guide on this sort of trip for twenty-four years, some of them had been doing it longer, and the captain was a man easily well into his eighties who had spent his entire life out on the water. None of them had ever seen anything like it in their entire lives, nor had they heard of anyone seeing anything like it.

It was well worth being an hour and a half late returning to the dock — though one “princess” threw a fit about that.

I work on a tour boat. We have to rip the guests’ ticket stubs as reference for how many passengers are on board, and every day without fail there will be someone waving it in front of us:

Tourist: “You can see we have tickets! See ya!”

Fortunately, the second crew member at the top of the ramp will always send them back down regardless of their hissy fit.

I am a third-party tour guide, and I am showing some tourists visiting from the Midwest around The Alamo, the famous historical building in Texas. I am explaining the history of the building and the famous “Battle Of The Alamo” to the tourists.

Me: “So, after the thirteen-day siege, the Texans fell to the Mexican Republic—”

Tourist: “Wait… we lost?”

Me: “Uh… yes.”

Tourist: “That’s not how I remember it.”

I go on to explain in more detail what happened and how it was a turning point in the Mexican-American War. The tourist looks angry but is listening quietly.

Tourist: “Well… The Alamo is in America now, so… I guess we won in the end!”