Of all the bugs I’ve known – from ants to aphids, from fleas to fruit flies – I like my travel bug the best. I was bitten early.

After college, when I absolutely couldn’t decide what I wanted to do with my life, I embraced my travel bug and became a stewardess. It was the perfect solution. I realize how lucky I was to see a lot of this country and many other parts of the world. I never took it for granted.

Recently, I was talking to a well-traveled friend about this, sharing some old experiences. We agreed that it’s truly the people you meet that make travel worthwhile, many of them living forever in our memory banks.

Tall, slim, Lt. Commander Peter Lynley, Royal Navy, was the captain of Her Majesty’s Submarine Artful. We met Peter and his rapscallion crew on a Copenhagen brewery tour. Commander Lynley, whose officers were back at the boat, had his hands full controlling the jokesters and genuine characters within his crew. By the time we got to the tasting room, they were beyond rowdy.

Soon after the first beer, they were dancing on the tables, mimicking the brewmeister, and generally raising hell with the buxom waitresses. When the head of the brewery threw the entire crew out, he included us, as co-conspirators. Peter merely shrugged. Just another day with his hilarious bad boys.

Feeling guilty, Peter invited us to join them on his old diesel sub docked in Copenhagen harbor. Today, when I smell diesel exhaust it takes me back to that tiny, tightly packed officers’ wardroom. Cecil, Nigel, Antony, and James toasted us with copious glasses of Cherry Heering liqueur. Three tours of the stinking torpedo room followed.

After bumping into those bawdy blokes for a week of amusement park rides, dinners, and jazz joints, they were the last group I expected to see in the Anglican Church Sunday morning. Peter led them down the aisle, all brushed and polished – almost angelic. But then the ringleader, the funniest, crudest of the bunch – who had been drunk as a lord every night for a week – went to the pulpit to read the first lesson. I lost it. I laughed so hard that we had to leave. I calmed down in a nearby coffee shop in time to say our goodbyes after church. To this day I laugh out loud thinking of their hi-jinks and wonder what they’re like as old men.

Another Pete – this one spelled Pietr – was a Turkish travel agent we met over coffee in an Istanbul hotel. Well-traveled and charming, his stories flowed easily, his command of English good despite his humble disclaimers. Pietr told us how fervently he loved America. I remember asking him if he’d ever considered emigrating and his answer still resonates. “Oh yes, I’ve been on the list for over eleven years. Turkey’s quota is small and I will have to wait my turn.” I hope he made it.

We met people in our travels who colored our world view, our perspectives on humanity, even on our government. Kenan, the round, pink-faced shopkeeper in Cornwall, England, pushed us into a political discussion. “We were 54 million sheep farmers who ruled the world,” he said. “And now it’s all on your shoulders, Yank. How do YOU think America is going to handle the responsibility of absolute power?” It was 1967. The ensuing discussion was fervid and fascinating, forcing us to think about international relations, our history, and our personal hopes and plans. Unforgettable.

Mrs. Magee was a white-haired professor of Gaelic at Trinity College in Dublin. We were watching the evening news on the telly in the boarding house where we stayed for a few nights. Maggy Magee, her ill-fitting dentures clacking loudly, had lived there for forty years. Her sentences ran together in her rapid-fire brogue, as thick as shepherd’s pie.

I was beginning to catch an occasional word, watching to see if her choppers would stay in her fast-moving mouth, when she said something like: “AndyouarefromBoston? ‘Tisright? AndIknowsooooomanypeopleinBoston. ‘Tistrue. Andyouwenttocollegethere? ‘Tisright, yes? Oh,andyou’resuchgrandlooking youngpeople.” With that, she jammed her thumb up under my upper lip and asked, “Andarethoseteeeeethyourveryown?”

She was so sincere, so earnestly nice, that we tried hard not to laugh out loud. We talked into the wee hours about the “troubles” in Ireland, the economy and the Irish poets. It was amazing how clear her brogue became after a wee dram or two of Irish whisky. I think Maggy was into the gin. We never forgot her and how she prized good teeth above all worldly possessions.

The little vignettes, the many tales of truly warm, interesting people that I’ve shared dinners, dancing, and stories with, have been the joy of travel for me.

Reminiscing about them is a gift that keeps on giving in these golden years. I was so lucky to be bitten by the travel bug.

Marcy O’Brien can be reached at Moby.32@hotmail.com.