When we forget to pack our humility...

We’d all like to believe that when visiting different cultures our behavior marks us as modest and respectful individuals, genuinely appreciative of our good fortune.

Until, that is, we would appear to be none of the above—just assholes.

There can be no reasonable excuse for acting like spoiled, decidedly not humble idiots when guests in someone else’s country. There can be extenuating circumstances, however. Clearly, I’m winding up to a story here and it’s certainly not one that puts me or my better half in a terribly flattering light.

How does one recover humility when it’s been blown out of the water by a hissy fit on the road? Mostly by stepping outside yourself and listening to how utterly obnoxious you sound. Endless apologizing and big tips work too.

While checking in a few years ago to the spectacular Le Meridien in Marrakesh, Morocco, Rodney and I totally melted down at the check-in when handed a pencil for the registration rather than a pen. (Could I make this up? Doubtful.)

Incredibly stupid, spoiled, idiotic comments from both of us ensued all the while standing in the gorgeous lobby with a concierge named, what else, Mohammed, soothing us like the little children we had become.

“Oh, you will forget everything that has made you unhappy today,” wise, seen-it-all-and-probably-much-worse Mohammed assured us. “By the time you leave here, you will be very relaxed.”

“Right,” we both said. “Now where’s the bar?”

It had been a travel day from hell. Actually, from Istanbul via Casablanca where we had been dragged aside upon entry for holding Canadian passports (our first sign the world had gone upside down) to be ‘examined’ by ‘faux’ doctors to ensure we didn’t have avian flu. They diagnosed us by looking at our passports.

The luggage on our flight was held hostage for more than four hours without explanation. Fellow frustrated travelers lit up cigarettes under the No Smoking signs. Yes. I did too but only after another passenger, the spitting image of Iranian President Mahmoud Ahmadinejad asked me for a light. It wasn’t a good day to quit.

Next, we searched the airport for our domestic flight to Marrakesh. It did not appear on any notice board but a packed waiting room indicated people knew something we didn’t. Away we went.

After circling the empty airspace above the Marrakesh airport no less than three times, we finally landed but found ourselves once again in a lineup for customs. How many times did we have to officially enter Morocco?

Luckily, we encountered passengers who lost their humility before we did. We were still holding our tongues and clinging loosely to our manners when they let loose on airport officials. We managed to exit the airport with them and headed for our hotel.

Where, we discovered to such horror (!) we couldn’t fill in our registration forms with ink.

Over the course of our stay in his hotel, Mohammed became our new BFF. I would have given him my first born child as an apology but I doubt he would have accepted her. The tip, though, was very much appreciated.

Travel must surely provide the greatest lesson in humility. Can there be any experience more grounding than one that brings you face to face with unearned privileges?