When I announced the embarrassing story contest, Drew was the first to respond. I don’t think I’ll ever forget his brief but shudder-inducing tale of woe.

How about the time I was traveling to Canada with three Vice Presidents from my company, my direct boss and his boss, and two other people for a two week information gathering meeting and team building ski trip, and I got turned away at the border because I had a suspended drivers license in a state where I got a ticket ten years ago and didn’t know about it?

Pretty embarrassing. NOW, I have to get SPECIAL PERMISSION from the CANADIAN EMBASSY to be able to travel to Canada. So, there’s that.

Oh, and I lost my job over that one.

Or this one from Louise which makes me wish I didn’t know just how bad the toilets are on the Marrakesh Express. Because knowing? Kinda makes my mouth sweat.

I was all of 18, a young university student, and wholly clueless about backpacking. Friends of mine were hitch-hiking to Marrakech for charity. ‘Great’, thought I, ‘but there’s no way in hell I’m sitting in a sweltering lorry for a week’. Or, heaven forbid, camping. I still wanted a little adventure of my own, though. So I arranged to fly to Malaga, and make my way to Marrakech from there to meet my friends.

It was a hell of an interesting 24 hours. The main portion of that journey, as I know you’re aware, is the overnight train between Tangiers and Marrakech. I was horrified at the prospect of sleeping on a train, even in a couchette. Think of all the dangerous strangers who might rob me while I slept! Paranoid, and as I say, very green, I devised the beyond-cunning plan of sewing a secret pouch inside my underwear. There I would stash my debit card, which I felt was the only thing I truly could not live without.

So the time came, and I stashed my card in my undies. Feeling safe and secure, I visited the bathroom to brush my teeth and so on. I lay down in my bunk, and, blissfully serene, settled down to sleep.

Until, suddenly, I sat bolt upright. Where was my debit card? I could no longer detect it in my knickers! After some undignified groping (which no doubt mystified my couchette buddies), I concluded that the debit card had definitely gone. It wasn’t in my bed, either. I tried to think logically and calmly. Where had I been? With a growing sense of the inevitable, I back-tracked to the bathroom. Did I mention how grotty this bathroom was? It was downright disgusting. All the way there, I scanned the corridor, praying that the card might be lurking in a dark corner. Alas, I reached the bathroom and looked into the toilet.

Predictably, I was greeted by the sight of my card. There was only one thing for it. Wincing, I fished it out from its watery bed and dunked it (and my hands) straight under the taps.

I told everyone that holiday where my debit card had been, with a certain kind of glee. You can’t call yourself a seasoned traveller until you have these kind of experiences - in my case, entirely born out of an irrational and unhealthy paranoia. Since then, I’ve discovered stomach-pouches and belts which disguise money. On my next trip (I’m travelling around South East Asia for 6 months), I’m taking a waist pouch and some traveller’s cheques. Oh, and I’m working on improving my sewing.

Monday, March 31, 2008 | stories