Syria Series: Orient Express 3

Here's our traveling group, including our dear Melanie and Marshall. As you can see, we're all really in touch with our natural selves. We're so organic.
At one of the stops in eastern Turkey, we got acquainted with a Libyan passenger on the train. He had a pretty wife who looked out the window at us from inside the train. He said she never cared to stretch her legs, so we never met her. 

Perhaps it was just as well, though, considering how her husband tended to dominate conversation. I don’t imagine she’d ever have had the chance to say anything. Maybe the respite of silence was one of the reasons she preferred to stay in her cabin rather than stretch her legs.

The Libyan man talked about a recent trip to Spain, laughing that no Westerners knew anything about Libya except that Gadhafi lived there.  “Ghadafi! Bwa-ha-ha!” he bellowed, “Ghadafi!” 

He seemed to be laughing at us, actually. But the joke was on him: Westerner though I was, my concept of Libya now involved not only Ghadafi but also the “Bwa-ha-ha Ghadafi!” guy. My worldview was suddenly broader.