A few years ago for our anniversary, my husband and I went to Munich, Prague and Budapest. Munich and Prague were relatively uneventful, except that I accidentally spent $75 for three bottles of OPI nail polish, which is readily available here in the United States and retails for about $8 per bottle. Pro tip: If you can’t do enough math in your head to convert the Czech koruna to the American dollar, the conversion app is your friend. As is the calculator. Or maybe you don’t really need the nail polish. But I digress.

We almost made it out of the Czech Republic without further mishap. Almost. We were taking a train from Prague to Budapest, and decided to stock up on provisions at the train station because we weren’t sure what the food situation would be on the train. I went to a shop while my husband waited with our (considerable) luggage some distance away. This was pre-motherhood, when vanity still trumped efficiency and I (over) packed for every possible contingency.

I took my items up to the check-out counter, and the man behind the register rang me up. I handed him my credit card, and he started shaking his head and saying something to me in Czech. I had no idea what he was trying to tell me, but whatever it was, he felt strongly about it. At this point, my husband was waving at me and motioning that we needed to go or we were going to miss our train. I gave him a signal that I hoped meant “Hang on a second, I’m trying to avert an international incident.”

After much gesticulating on both of our parts, I put it together that the man’s credit card machine was not working. So I started to put the food back. I had no interest in going to an ATM and withdrawing more Czech money, because I was going to be in the Czech Republic for another fifteen minutes, max. All I wanted to do was put the items back and be on my way.

My husband didn’t quite know what was going on, but he could see I was in a bit of a jam. Unfortunately, he was encumbered by a multitude of suitcases holding every piece of winter apparel I own, not to mention the toiletries, shoes, guidebooks and souvenirs.

He looked around and did what any rational person would do when one’s wife is being held against her will by an angry merchant in a Czech train station…he started hollering for the police. In Spanish. “Policia! Policia!” he yelled. Note: the word for police in Czech is “Policie.” File that away. You might need it someday.

He needn’t have hollered, because that shopkeeper was way ahead of him. The police were already en route to deal with me. The police arrived. Fortunately, they spoke English. They explained to me that the man rang up the sale, his credit card machine was not working, and his register wouldn’t allow him to cancel the sale. I tried calmly explaining to the police that I just wanted to put the items back on the shelf, get on the train, and get out of their country. I expected that last part to appeal to them enough to advocate for me with the angry shopkeeper, but it did not. They suggested I go to the ATM. I explained I had no need of more Czech korunas. And, if we’re being honest, even if that had not been the case, I wouldn’t have given this shopkeeper my money for anything in the world. As my three-year-old would say, he was not nice.

I continued to emphasize the point to the policemen that I was not trying to steal. This was not a criminal situation. It wasn’t my fault that his credit card machine was broken, nor was it my responsibility that his register wouldn’t allow him to void a sale. After what felt like an eternity, but was probably more like five minutes, the police acquiesced to my logic and let me go. I thanked them politely and got the hell out of there before anyone changed their minds.

Without a minute to spare, we boarded the train to Hungary, hungry and with no food. We’d been right about the food options on board – pickings were slim and overpriced, and credit cards were not accepted. We emptied every pocket between us. I hunted through my purse. We came up with about 10 Euros, and my husband went forth to forage. He returned with our paltry rations, and all was well. By then, we were just grateful not to be in custody.

The train was a sleeper train. This was, of course, my idea. I’d read Murder on the Orient Express and expected it to be like that minus, you know, the murder part.

The reality was this:

(This isn’t my photo. It’s one I found on Google, but it’s almost exactly the same as our bunks.)

I climbed up to upper bunk to check things out, and then proceeded to climb back down instead of using the ladder because…me. On my way down, I got my rib cage stuck on the blue bar you see in the photos. My legs dangling in his face, my husband – unaware of my predicament – started trying to help by pulling on my feet, which caused the bar to dig deeper up under my rib cage. I was in excruciating pain, but also completely helpless with silent laughter. Clueless, my husband continued to pull on my legs, driving the bar ever further into my person. Making matters worse, he picked this moment in our marriage to try using words of encouragement.

So there I was, tears of pain and laughter streaming down my face, legs swinging wildly, gasping for breath, while he loudly cheered “Keep coming! Keep coming! Come on honey! You can do it! Keep coming!” And I was rendered even more helpless with laughter and the fervent hope that no one on the other side of our door spoke English well enough to…well, you know.

I did eventually make it down from the top bunk without serious bodily injury, and I used the ladder for all subsequent trips up and down from the bunk. We arrived in Budapest without further incident.

And with that, I wish you a very happy Thanksgiving and leave you with a parting thought: The key to surviving this life is being able to see the absurdity in any situation. That, and knowing what language to use when calling for police.

P.S. – This was also the trip during which my husband took a 10-hour bus tour of Bavarian castles with me. That is love.