Stop the bus!

I squinted up at the balcony just above. It was a mild, early morning departure from our hotel nestled in a nook of Lake Como; the Linji (sp) touring bus was comfortable and I was anxious to experience the Alps first hand. "Look up, Mom said." I did; there was Bob Hardy, crooked smile, sleepy eyes, and all. He was clutching a glass of orange juice; his brother Lloyd and their mother Laura smiled too. They had been in Streza for two weeks and we did not know it.

We had come the afternoon before from Milan. After taking our rooms, we ate and walked the lake. I noticed the fishermen along the bank casting VERY far into the water. It was the first time I had seen a spinning outfit (1952). I could not see the monofiliment line but the red and white bobbers sailed out so far (one of those fishermen was Bob but they were too far away for recognition). We turned in early.

Norman Robert 'Bob' Hardy and I were classmates and friends in Dhahran. I had so much to tell him about our drive from Beirut to Aleppo, the train to Venice, and the journey to Milan. But there was no time. The bus was running and everyone was watching us try to cram two hours of conversation into a few seconds. I felt a gentle nudge and up the stairs I went. Bye Bob I waved.

The journey up was majestic. The sun was out and the Swedish drivers talked to us in several languages; they switched driving duties frequently and we had lots of time at these stops. I ran into an orchard and picked a green apple. I saw German Boy Scouts trekking. The air was clear and fresh, cool to the nostrils. We stopped again and the drivers took us in for lunch. We were in the mountains. Everything was angular and I stretched my legs by climbing and running up and down, up and down. We got back on the bus and headed north.

After about 15 minutes a little black car was beeping at us from behind. We were climbing slowly, the driver changing gears constantly. The road was curving, switching back and forth from one radius to the other with almost no straight away. The bus slowed and tried to let the little vehicle pass. They seemed to try several times but opposing traffic held them at bay. The drivers were looking in the mirrows and talking to each other about these obvious tourists in a hurry. Coming out of one tunnel the little car swung into the outside lane and as everyone leaned over to see who these nuts were, the waitress from the last rest stop leaned out the window and waved my Dad's camera bag at us.

"Chris, that's your camera bag!," my mom snapped. My dad looked in the empty seat beside him to confirm her observation. We all said, "stop the bus, stop the bus!!!!!"

Not much more needs to be said about the dignity and self respect of one waitress who chased a tourist family far into the Alps to return a lost, very expensive Zeiss Contax with four lenses, tripod, light meters, and more. She was happy to do this deed and refused to take a penny for her trouble. Wherever you are, thanks again. Our son, a Telecine colorist in San Francisco, thanks you too. He now has his grandfather's Contax and it still takes great pictures.