TRAVEL TRIBES

Gerald glowers at the back of the taxi driver’s head. “Vad?” he says. “On our way to the restaurant it only cost 120 kronor.”

Marjorie clasps the handle of her new wicker handbag tightly, bracing herself for the inevitable battle to come. “But darling, we asked him to drive past a cashpoint, remember? And 10 kronor is just a pound.”

Ignoring his wife, Gerald slides closer to the driver’s ear and gives the international sign for “Don’t try to mug me off, mate” – head cocked, eyebrow raised, jawline rigid. “And earlier we didn’t pass the port. Why did you take us the longer route?”

Marjorie can’t stand Gerald’s “I’m no mug” face, his features twisted into expressions denoting robust cynicism, resembling, to Marjorie’s long-suffering mind, a Picasso portrait made of ham.

She’d seen this face at the restaurant earlier, when Gerald asked for suggestions from the waiter, before tutting and saying, “And the fish-of-the-day is fresh? You’re not calling it a ‘special’ just to get rid of the old fish knocking around the kitchen?”

Here in Stockholm, Marjorie had hoped Gerald would have faith in the Swedes, employ a willing suspension of disbelief and actually enjoy his holiday. Marrakech had been a nightmare. She shudders at the recollection of Gerald rudely waving away the welcome drinks at the riad hotel, bellowing “We didn’t order mint tea and we’re not paying for it,” at poor, smiley Charif. Marjorie spent that trip convincing Gerald that the taxi driver seemed honest, the entry fee for the mosque seemed fair and the wine hadn’t been watered down.

“I mean, if you don’t trust the Swedish, you don’t trust anyone,” Majorie thinks as she extracts herself from the taxi. Next time, she won’t plan a trip with Gerald. She’ll take her secret lover, Phil, instead.