Meeting a guide is like a blind date: Anything can happen

THESE were our first moments on Chinese soil. As we entered the airport, a gregarious fellow extended a hand to my wife and me.

"Adam Weaver," he said, forging another link in our continuing exploration of the mysterious world of the guide.

"Adam?" I asked, as we settled in the car, commenting that I thought his name was unusual for a Chinese man. Very simple, he said, explaining that a Canadian tourist once had advised him to adopt a sophisticated Western name to make tourists think of him as more worldly.

At least Adam Weaver knew his way around Beijing. Would that some of our guides around the world knew where they were going or how to tell us what to see. Some confused us instead of educating us. From our experiences, we have gleaned ways to find the right guide. (See related story, Page 5.)

When we landed in Buenos Aires, for instance, on our first excursion to South America, the guide asked, "So what do you want to see?" I thought it was her job to tell us.

The next leg of this particular trip took us to Rio de Janeiro. I had communicated by e-mail with our guide several times. He replied in perfectly written English. After a few minutes in the car, though, we realized we were having a communication problem. His spoken English was poor.

"So, how long have you been using the computer?" I asked. In broken English, he conveyed that he didn't use one. His nephew translates for him.

Still, we were on overdrive with excitement. We were headed to Christ the Redeemer, the magnificent monument on Sugar Loaf. The guide took us to the foot of the mountain. Then he walked off. He told us to make our way up there ourselves.

"There's really nothing for me to say about it," he said. At least that's what I think he said.

Our misguided adventures have taken place around the globe. In Italy, we hit a wall in beautiful Siena, a place where we wanted to see it all, the square with the annual rodeo-like horse race, the fabulous plazas, the 1,000-year-old churches.

But the guide's accent was thick and his agenda narrow. He specialized in the paintings in one particular church; we were practically in tears with boredom when he finished his dissertation. When he suggested taking us to another church, we parted ways with him.

Another trip took us to Costa Rica. We hired a pilot to fly us from the capital, San Jose, to the small Central American nation's Pacific coast. Along the way, he dipped the plane to show us sights: a waterfall, the rain forest, a grotto. I sat alongside him in the four-seater, my stomach lurching.