Eavesdropping 101

My husband and I attract eavesdroppers. I simply cannot explain it. It never happens when I am out with girlfriends and seldom happens when we are out with other couples or our children. But almost always—perhaps 95% of the time—when my husband and I are out together someone's eavesdropping radar engages, and they listen. We've had people reposition their chairs, cross their arms, cock their heads in our direction, and settle in for the long-run.

But why? We are not saying anything!

When this happens in America, we'll often switch to German, but that has its drawbacks. My side of the conversation is laced with “What did you say?” and “Come again?” In Europe, we cannot switch to anything.

The other night we were situated in a lovely French cafe eating tapas and talking about nothing in particular. Suddenly we realized all movement and sound had ceased from the neighboring table. I suggested I take a picture of the couple listening to us. But Hunt was adamant that picture-taking would violate some international peace policy or other. I was not so sure.

We Fondly Call Him
The Man In The Striped Shirt

I thought of picture-taking because twice on this trip we've had some success with our cameras. Once in Barcelona, I told Hunt we were being followed by a pickpocket wearing a striped shirt. I suspected the man was a pickpocket because when I turned around TWICE to gaze at the view—I was really cleverly turning to watch him!—the man was pretending to window shop with his back to me. Hunt lagged behind until the suspected pickpocket was between the two of us, took out his camera, and snapped a picture of him. And voilà! The man immediately vanished into the crowd.

My other recent success with a camera occurred when I could not stare down a German tourist. I began perfecting my stare-down tactics about a decade ago for self-preservation, and I've had great success. If I catch someone looking at me, I'll glance away. Then I'll take a little peek, and if they are still looking, I look back. Not aggressively, of course, just with a look that says, “I have the time to stare, do you?” And either they do not have the time or they realize what their mother should have taught them in the first place: It is rude to stare! And they look away.

The Stare-Down

But the German tourist would not be stemmed. She stared. I stared. She stared. So I whipped out my camera and took her picture, not even taking time to focus. And voilà! Such a loud and satisfying reaction! I heard her complaining to her husband as her tour group pushed her along the corridor.

So there I sat trying to decide how to stop the eavesdroppers who, with their stoney silence, were threatening to ruin our tapas dinner. Without a camera for a weapon and not wanting a stare-down, I came up with a brilliant scheme. I would say outlandish things to confuse the eavesdroppers and turn this uncomfortable situation into a game!

Karen: I hope they will let us take the alligator aboard The Orient Express.

Hunt: What?

Karen: The alligator. I do so hope they will not make us leave him at the train station.

Hunt: The alligator?

Karen: Yes, because I simply do not want to go on a cruise again with him. Wasn't that last cruise to Barbados simply frightful? (And I furtively cut my glance in their direction to clue Hunt in.)

Hunt: YES! THE ALLIGATOR!

Karen: The poor dear, getting seasick and all. I would have thought he'd be more of a sailor, wouldn't you?

Well, that was the end of my little subterfuge, because suddenly Hunt did a spit-take that sent an olive (one of our tapas!) shooting across the restaurant floor. Then he covered his mouth and cleared his throat in what can only be described as the last stages of pleurisy.

But all wasn't for naught, I guess, because the couple suddenly hurried out. And we finished our tapas in peace.