(One of my best friends growing up had never been on a plane or been out of the country. He grew up on a large Midwestern farm, and was always too busy helping his family to travel more than a few hours away. Of course there’s nothing wrong with that, but I knew he wished he could visit new places one day. After college I moved away to another state, but we still talked often on the phone and online. He called earlier this year to tell me he was going out of the country for the first time; his family had been invited to a destination wedding in the Caribbean. He was really excited, and had already submitted his application for his first ever passport. I told him to have fun and take plenty of pictures. The date of the wedding comes and goes, and about a week later I get another call.)

Friend: “Hey, [My Name]. It’s [Friend].”

Me: “Hey! How was the wedding? Did you have a great time?”

Friend: “Yeah, well, the wedding was fun, and it was cool seeing the beaches. But you won’t believe what happened on the way back.”

Me: “Oh, no… Did something happen with your flight?”

Friend: “Not exactly. I found out when we were trying to reenter the US that my brand-new passport number is exactly one digit different from the passport of a guy who is wanted in more than one country.”

Me: “What?!”

Friend: “Yeah. I got to spend six hours in TSA holding while they figured out if I was this guy or not.”

Me: “Did you kind of look like this guy, too, or something? Is that why it took so long?”

Friend: “Not even a little.”

(For some additional perspective, my friend is a 25-year-old, blond-haired, blue-eyed farmer, and he was eventually told that the wanted man with the similar passport number was in his 40s, with dark hair and brown eyes, and was wanted in some kind of “white collar” criminal case.)

Me: “I’m so sorry that happened! Can you get a new passport number?”

Friend: “I haven’t checked yet, but I don’t think I’m going to be going anywhere else for a while.”

(I thought about it later. What are the odds that this could happen to someone on their first trip to another country, with a brand new passport? I don’t know yet if he’s allowed to apply for a new passport number, but I would think this would be a case where the Department of State could make an exception.)

Several years ago, when I was studying abroad in South Africa, two of my friends and I decided to do a road trip along the Garden Route. Our first stop was in Addo, where there is an elephant reserve. I booked all the accommodations and scheduled the whole trip.

We were already renting an 1970s Mercedes Benz and, despite warnings, we took it with us. We underestimated the time it would take to get to Addo from Cape Town and ended up arriving very late to our first hostel. Much to our dismay, the owners weren’t there. A family staying said the owners were out of town but to call a number, get the information, and leave our money. We tried the number several times and got no answer. Since we had seen signs for other hostels on our way in, we decided to take our chances and find another place.

We ended up driving to several with no luck. Despite the car being an automatic, it stalled out like crazy. While I was driving us around trying to find a new hostel, it stalled out again. While I was trying to restart it, someone knocked on our window. All three of us screamed at the top of our lungs. We were in an extremely rural area, late at night, surrounded by almost nothing. After composing myself, I slowly rolled down the window. The older man asked us if we were okay. We explained our situation. He pointed to the only hotel in the area, a high-end place surrounded by a giant wall. We said it was too expensive for us. He said it was late and we should give it a shot, then told us good luck and went on his way.

After driving to more than five other hostels, we gave up and decided to try the hotel. If it was really expensive, we’d ask our parents to wire us more money. The woman who checked us in was quite kind and later, after we’d settled in, she and her husband sat with us while we had dinner in their dining room. They gave us great advice for the rest of our trip.

The next morning, after sleeping in one of the nicest little cottages I’ve ever seen, we went to check out. The woman at the desk was older than woman from the night before. She insisted we have breakfast, even though we’d already had the cereal we brought with us. She was so insistent, we ended up eating at their massive buffet.

And that’s when it happened. As we were eating, she came by and told us that not only was our breakfast free, she was comping our meals from the night before and giving us a discount on our room. We were shocked. It turns out that the woman from the night before was her daughter. It was a family-run joint. She said she knew we came in late and were slightly desperate for a place to stay, and she couldn’t make us pay full price in that condition.

But there’s more. While we were still processing this woman’s kindness, the older man from the night before walked into the dining room. When he saw us, he came over and said, “She give you a good discount?” It was her husband. He’d been out for a nightly walk when he came upon us, sitting in a stalled car, looking terrified. He told his wife to go easy on us if we showed up.

We thanked him profusely for his kindness. He said, “My son went to live in the States. I’m only doing what I hope one of your fellow Americans would do for him if he got in trouble.”

It’s been ten years, and it remains one of the kindest things anyone has ever done for me. Believe me, we reviewed that place on every site we could after our trip was over.

This story is part of the South Africa Roundup!

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(My family and I have just finished a beautiful two-week trip and have bought a lot of ceramic plates, figures, and vases from all the towns we visited. We have had to take two plane trips inside the country, but this is the last plane back home to ours. My family is pretty well-travelled, and we always pride ourselves in our packing skills and never letting anything break, spending literally HOURS packing each suitcase the day before we travel. We are at the counter checking in our luggage when I suddenly hear the attendant next to me explaining to somebody else that they can’t take ceramics into their carry-on. I immediately turn and ask her to repeat herself. As usual, we have the most fragile items on our carry-ons, and that includes big ceramic skulls, three gigantic vases, and one head-sized apple sculpture. We confirm at security that, indeed, they do not allow it, as it is viewed as a blunt object too dangerous for the plane crew. The rule was not what made me angry, but the fact that it was never told to us, nor was it written anywhere I could see at the airport.)

Attendant: “I was going to to tell you in just a minute.”

Me: “Yes, thank you. But telling me now makes little difference to me, since now I need to take everything out of my suitcase and try to fit all this in, in a lot less time than I had at the hotel.”

(The worst part was when we got inside the airport and the stores were selling… guess what? Ceramics. And those could go inside your carry-on.)

(My friend has recently returned to the UK after a holiday in Benidorm. It’s a notoriously popular holiday destination for Brits. We are both English.)

Me: “How was your holiday?”

Friend: “It was okay. I spent most of the time travelling away from Benidorm to other places. That place was horrible! The people were awful all the time! I felt so bad for the Spanish staff, since they were all really lovely. They must hate us. You’d walk down the street and there’s these English people sat outside all the pubs, off their heads. And they were really rude, too, really aggressive. This one bloke heard he wasn’t getting any more free drinks, and he smashed up the hotel bar. The things he was shouting at that poor bartender made me blush. I felt so ashamed to be British.”

Me: “Didn’t you expect it at all?”

Friend: “Well… you hear the stories. But I never believed it until I saw it with my own eyes.”

(I don’t think she’s ever worked in retail. It’s surprising how few people understand how bad customers can be… until they actually see it.)

(Italy is famous for its churches. You can find a church in every square, in old towns there’s almost one in every street, and all of them are famous for something — paintings, statues, tombs, etc. Two girls come into my office and ask me:)

Girls: “Where is the church?”

Me: “Um… Which one are you looking for?”

Girls: “The famous one.”

Me: “We have one in front of us, one next to us, and one at the end of the street; choose one!”

Girls: “Okay, thank you!”