I had a friend who was born in Hungary. In 1956, after having served three years in a Russian work camp in Ukraine during what we called the Hungarian Revolution, he led a band of friends overland to the Austrian border. He was multi-talented with all things mechanical, rebuilding outboard motors and car engines as just an afternoon's past-time. He claimed he was also an accomplished thief, and boasted he could steal a light bulb (a valuable currency in that Russian prison) right under the noses of the guards.

He also was a handsome fellow who could devastate the ladies, and when he greeted a woman by gracefully taking her hand and bending over to kiss the fingers, well, the swoons were audible. I told him that it looked so good, I was going to give it a try next chance I got. He shook his head.

"Don't even try it if you were not born in Europe before WW2," was the way he put it. "Some things are simply beyond the competence of the average North American." 

He was right. I got something like "Are you trying to appraise my rings, or what?" I decided to limit my Euro-mock to clothing style. With no greater success.

The foulard is a light scarf which may need to be draped over a person of immediate French nationality to be effective. Just because you found racks of them at the street market for €5 apiece doesn't mean you can wear them with the same élan as a local. In Canada I knotted them up tight for warmth; in France it looked like I was strangling myself for some masochistic reason.

Speaking of dress, Beverly and I once arrived in Paris on our way to somewhere and made our first stop outside the train station at a sidewalk café. We had just clinked glasses when I saw this apparition sail past us across the street. There was a woman on an electric scooter with flowing garment and tresses trailing behind her regally poised form as she flowed along. I realized that only in Paris could such a women speed by on a scooter and turn heads with her elegance - pardon, her élégance. What was it? posture? dress? look? all-of-the-above?

I have learned too that in Paris, wine is not consumed solo. The tourists are the ones with just the glass of wine or beer on the table. At least have some bread, or bread and olives, or bread and olives and cheese, with some charcuterie meats. Perhaps monsieur would like to see le menu?

Italy has its own conventions, one of which is the size of meals one is expected to consume. At any ristorante worth its sal you get the antipasti and the primo and secundi and the dulci. I was for just ordering the salad and going straight to the dessert, but that wouldn't do. Oh, and if the pizza was to be the main course, be prepared for a long stay. Where in Canada, you could order a "personal size pizza'" of a manageable dimension, in Italy you got the full dinner platter version all to yourself. We looked around at other diners and sure enough, there were folk contentedly chowing their way through these great family-sized servings. We learned to order one and do "sharsies" like the cowards we were.

And everyone has a driving story about European road trips. The posted speed limits are merely suggestions and even when it says 130 you will be passed by other drivers of motorcycles (certainly), sports cars (always), even truckers (occasionally) and they will all do it safely. Never, did someone zip by my white knuckled steering and fail to speed up. That is, they passed and got out of the way. Only once did a tour driver on the Amalfi coast comment on the indiscretions of a motorcyclist who had roared past us on a mountain curve.

"We have a term in Italian for such drivers," he said. "I believe the English translation is 'organ donor'."

But stories of European conventions and driving always come down to this one anecdote for me.

Four of us had left it quite late to get to our hotel in the hills above Naples, and only on board the last bus up did we realize that its destination would still leave us some distance from our night's accommodation. I explained our predicament to the driver who fortunately understood English.

"No problem," he assured me and called to one of his passengers. They engaged in a short conversation as we came to a stop in a small town at the end of the line. "He will drive you," said the bus driver and we all disembarked.

The chap headed off up the street and drove back in a very small car. Our friends piled their luggage into it and were ferried off into the night. B and I did the only sensible thing and bought a bottle of wine at the one store still open and sipped away while we waited. Half an hour later, he returned.

We stashed our suitcases in the trunk, squeezed ourselves in and off we went. At the hotel, our driver helped us unload things and said goodbye. He would not accept any compensation, waving us away with a smile. 

That was the essential memory of that trip, and in its essence, of many other travels in Europe and elsewhere - the kindness of strangers. There is only one way to repay such gifts and that is to pay it forward. Some things are not restricted to Europe.