Iran. I was in Iran about the first of November, 1978, two months before the Shah was chased out by the start of the Islamic Revolution. As I had been traveling for the previous two months in Asia, I did not realize how much the situation had deteriorated in Iran. In fact, I did not really appreciate previously just how much some people can hate an American simply because he is an American – until I came to Iran.

My first day in Tehran, I was walking down a street when it became apparent that the loud noises ahead were due to protestors coming down the street. Deciding to turn around and retreat, I found armed military marching up the street toward the sound of the protestors with me in the middle. Fortunately, there was a side alley (or small street) that I could reach. I didn’t know if it would provide an escape route (it did) or was a dead end, but it was much better than staying between two sides seemingly bent on violence.

The next day, heading down to Isfahan on a bus, I was sitting next to a university student who told me the music being played on the bus was calling for a revolution. It was interesting to talk to him, as he and his friends on the bus had no concept of what kind of government or country they wanted; they just wanted the Shah to be ousted. When exiled Ayatolah Khomeini returned, he would tell them and everybody else everything they needed to know.

I stayed in the stylish Shah Abbas Hotel in Isfahan, which at that particular time had an excellent deal (surprise!). I didn’t see other guests. At night, I could hear machine guns firing a few times (not too close), I think coming from helicopters flying up and down streets. I figured it would be good to get out of Isfahan, and Iran for that matter, so the next day I managed to find a bus that would get me back to Tehran. It left in the evening. There was a curfew after dark in Iranian cities, but the bus could travel the long distance overnight outside any city. During the day, I did some sight-seeing without spotting any other visitors at the historic palaces and mosques. However, there were some people in those few days in Iran who were pretty belligerent – angry – when they asked, and I truthfully answered that I was an American.

In mid-afternoon the last day in Isfahan, a young man befriended me and would not leave me until he personally saw me on the bus to Tehran. After my initial trip from the airport into Tehran and dealing with the taxi driver who was so angry with America and therefore with me, I had determined not to have any discussions with people at all, but it proved to be impossible as a few different people insisted on asking me why America was supporting the Shah who was oppressing the Iranian people. It was with a handful of young men who confronted me and wanted to have this discussion that my new “friend” emerged. At first, I wondered what he was up to but soon realized during the “discussion” that I was his friend and, therefore according to Islamic tradition, I was his guest and must not be harmed in any way. As I said, he was with me for the subsequent few hours until I got on the bus to return to Isfahan. Once again, I was protected by a stranger who stepped up for me.

Crete. One time I was in Crete to give some lectures in a two-week NATO workshop on "NMR of Biological Macromolecules" that met in the early morning and evening at the Gonia Monastery of Kolymbari (aka Kolympari), to avoid the mid-day heat. Unlike most tourists who simply go to the beaches in Crete, one day around noon, my wife and I drove our rental car into the mountains from Kolymbari.

On a narrow road rounding a blind corner, I had a head-on collision with a local driver and his mother, who were on the wrong side of the road. At the slow speed, no one was hurt except the cars, which were still drivable. We all went to their nearby village of Anoskeli, so we could call and report the accident to police and the insurance company. Fortunately, the driver’s cousin was visiting from Toronto, so she was able to translate for us.

Reporting done and lunch-time approaching, we were pressed into accepting a lunch invitation sitting outside the house of the driver’s older brother. It became clear that we would offend if we left, so we ended up staying for a few hours as the stimulus for an impromptu party. As we sat there, gradually other people (often relatives) from the village showed up, sometimes bringing food or drink; some would join us and others would leave during the course of the afternoon. This was an expensive party for me, as I couldn’t get the insurance to cover damage to the car, and I had to pay $700 cash in order to go through passport control to get on the plane leaving Crete several days later.

Malaysia. As I was arranging a cheap hotel room after I got off the crowded bus in Kuala Kangsar, Malaysia, I met “Tony” as he was walking by the hotel desk. Tony insisted I have a beer with him in the adjacent café. As an ethnic Chinese, Tony had plenty of criticism for the way the government and the laws were stacked in favor of the ruling Malays. In particular, he noted that most jobs for college graduates were reserved for native Malays. He also asked me to join him and some friends, as everyone in town was invited to the birthday party for the Sultan of Perak at the sultan’s palace in the evening; he was one of eleven sultans in Malaysia. So, I went with them.

The palace was indeed impressive, although not much was publicly accessible; it also had a pretty impressive private mosque. At a minimum, it was a very interesting cultural experience with music, dancers and shadow plays. At the time, I thought it would be in bad taste for me to be taking pictures (of course, these days the locals would take pictures with their cell phones). I talked with others besides the guys I went with and gained a pretty consistent picture of local life. It turns out this particular sultan and his sons were not so nice; in particular, it could be a difficult life if you had a pretty daughter or wife, or if your family did not move off the road quickly enough when the sultan’s cars sped by. The sultan and his family were above the law; in fact, they made the rules. Of course, I pretty much had to eat everything offered or risk offending. After partying, I got back to the hotel room in the wee hours of the morning. I paid big-time for that night out: in a matter of hours, I was incredibly sick with all contents trying to escape from my body through every orifice.

Southern India. Once while traveling in southern India, I had a run-in with Indian police. I was visiting a Maharahja’s palace, among other sights, in Mysuru (aka Mysore), India, when I tested a sign that said, “No pictures to be taken inside the palace.” I obeyed the sign as I walked through the palace, but once I was outside the palace, I turned around and took a picture looking back into the palace.

A policeman quickly came up to me and demanded that I give him my camera. I refused. He then demanded the film, which I also refused. (Fortunately, I understood enough about the gentility of Indians to know that I could refuse. This would not work in all countries.) For a few moments we argued the semantics of what it meant to take a picture inside the palace. He took me to his superior, telling me as we walked that simple payment of baksheesh might have worked but too many people had seen me flout the law. We went through the same routine with his superior. He then took me to see the commandant. My heart sank as we entered the commandant’s office,

because we had to wake him up. However, he was a wise man. He knew enough about cameras that he had me rewind the film in my camera and reshoot a couple of pictures with the camera pointed towards a bright light so as to destroy the pictures I had taken of the interior of the palace. Then I was free to go.

Kerala Coast. Speaking of the gentleness of Indians … once I was traveling along the Kerala Coast of SW India from Trivandrum to Cochin (Thiruvananthapuram to Kochi).

The conductor who came by checking tickets said it was not permitted to be standing in that stairwell (maybe because the bus didn’t actually have a door). Seeing that I couldn’t stand up straight in the aisle, the conductor instructed a nearby passenger to give me his seat, and he dutifully obeyed. I felt guilty, so I insisted the man take his seat again when the conductor went back to the front of the bus.

After 15-20 minutes and further bus stops, the conductor pushed his way to the back of the bus again. Again, he demanded that I take the other guy’s seat. However, with the conductor going back to the front of the bus, this time when I tried to have the man take the seat again, many other passengers joined him in insisting that I must remain seated and not him.