What every traveler should know about tour guides, bus toilets and French onion soup.

Original Post Date: 06.22.2021. Revised: 07.19.2025.

Other than a few day trips, I don’t have travel plans this year, but that hasn’t stopped me from thinking about taking a tour soon - although, if I’m honest, I have mixed feelings about traveling with a tour company.

The upside is obvious: you get to see the things you’ve always dreamed of, guided by an expert whose commentary—if you can retain any of it—might make you the reigning trivia champ back home. Plus, someone else hauls your luggage from hotel to hotel. That alone is worth at least a third of the tour price.

On the other hand, it’s a rigidly structured environment. Tour guides often channel their inner drill sergeants to keep everyone on schedule with military precision. Every two weeks, they inherit a fresh batch of recruits—and there’s always someone who just can’t grasp the tour’s primary directive: Be. On. Time. For everything. Every day. For the next 14 days and 13 nights.

On my last tour, there were two travelers who must have thought “precisely 11:00 a.m.” was a suggestion. Three minutes past the designated time, our guide Natalie** instructed our bus driver Rolf** to “Roll Out!” As our motor coach inched away from the narrow street near the Rijksmuseum, the two time-travelers could be seen weaving through the “IAMSTERDAM” sculpture, flapping their arms like flightless birds in an attempt to get the driver’s attention.

By now, the whole busload of us was begging Natalie to wait. She seemed determined to teach them—and us—a lesson. Rolf finally convinced her it was in everyone’s best interest to hold up. I suspect he figured that if either of them keeled over from a heart attack, he’d be the one stuffing them in the luggage compartment or the onboard bathroom—which we were told not to use unless it was an emergency. (Because honestly, who uses a bus bathroom unless it is an emergency?)

I replayed that moment on loop for the rest of the trip. So, when we arrived in Bruges and were told we had exactly 45 minutes for lunch, I immediately sought out a restaurant with outdoor seating and a clear view of our meeting spot. That way, if Natalie decided to bug out early, I could catapult myself over a Belgian family of four, and their baby stroller, to make it back on schedule.

Time being of the essence, I skipped anything on the menu that needed to be baked, braised, broiled, blanched, or browned. That left soup.

A tall, waifish server approached.

“Your order, Madam?”

“May I have a bowl of the French onion soup, please?”

“No.” (Pause. Consider if no means something else in Dutch.)

“No?”

“No.”

“Are you out of French onion soup?”

“Madam, there is no such thing as French onion soup. There is only onion soup. You are in Belgium now, and we serve onion soup.”

(Pause. Consider the diplomatic damage I’ve just done to US–Belgium relations.)

“May I have the Belgian onion soup then?”

“Again, Madam—there is only onion soup.”

Precious minutes were ticking by. My fellow travelers—terrified at the thought of being left behind—had already begun migrating toward our rendezvous point.

“Onion soup it is.” Moments later, it arrived.

In a bowl roughly the size of a sippy cup floated a murky pool of brown liquid. No bread. No cheese. No visible onion. Just some root vegetable debris bobbing on the bottom. It looked—and smelled—like the backwash of a garbage disposal.

I scanned the square.

Lines at the French fries stands (sorry—fries stands) were too long. Ditto the chocolate shops.I rummaged through my bag and found a packet of peanut butter crackers. It would have to do.

Across the plaza, Sargent Natalie began her march toward the rendezvous point, with some members of the group waddling after her like two-day-old ducklings.

I left money to pay the bill. I wanted to leave a note for the server suggesting that the restaurant put nationalism aside and consider serving any other country’s version of onion soup. But Natalie was on the move. As I raced toward the bus, I saw the same two latecomers from day one casually wander into a cheese shop.

I ran faster. If someone was going to spend the rest of the tour in the commode, it sure as hell wasn’t going to be me.

Have you ever been this close to being left behind on a trip? Share your “chasing the bus” story — or your worst travel meal!

“Travelin’ Man” — written by Jerry Fuller, recorded by Ricky Nelson, © 1961, published by Acuff-Rose Publications, Inc.