Sometimes, the most casual comment turns out to be true.

I was in Italy - around 22 years old at the time - when a Japanese student stopped me and asked the way to the 'Capella degli Scrovegni' in Padua. Just one word - Scrovegni. My head was still reeling from its contents. I told her in English that I had come from there, and it was all the way down this road, and turn right - look for just one solitary mid-sized room. She put her map in front of me - not enough of a common language had emerged - and I traced the route out, and tapped the chapel. She looked up at me, and smiled broadly 'Thank-you' she said in what sounded like very competent English. I smiled back and went on my way.

I met her again at our youth hostel. Did she think that the chapel deserved it's fame? She smiled again, somewhat shyly this time and pushed forward her friend. She was now accompanied by an American man - who told me that it was amazing - so many paintings packed into one place. On further enquiry, I learned that they had together travelled to many places - they spoke of lands I had only dreamed about - Egypt and Peru, Tibet and the Barrier Reef in Australia. Through the pasta and the excellent bread they rambled on, raising in me a combination of admiration and incredulity.

It seemed that their travel itinerary revolved around whether they knew the word for 'thank you' at their possible destination - they were, it became clear, culture nomads with a seemingly unending budget. They were leaving for Spain the following day, giving all of France a miss. Destination - the famous Picasso in Madrid. Across Italy, Ventimiglia, Monaco, and then straight through, she showed me on the train map. No turning sharp right for a northbound train to Paris - the Mona Lisa didn't feature in their list, it seemed. 'It's Merci' I told them. (No, not enough to persuade them to visit the Musee D'Orsay, which remains a firm favourite.) After a while, they left, arms lovingly entwined.

I sat with my English companion, a school friend (forcing down pasta, and gingerly fingering his bread) and envied them their entwined arms.

They are clearly spies, said my friend. Nobody else has that kind of money at our age. Nobody spies at that age, either, I said. (I realise now that is wrong of course - it was just such very young spies, who turned out to have betrayed the United Kingdom over several decades, as one of them grew up to be a double agent, heading MI6.)

How did they talk to each other though, if she doesn't know anything in English beyond 'Thank you'? I wondered aloud.

My companion smiled. 'Talking doesn't come into it' he said. I couldn't make sense of it.

After all these years I look back at that balmy evening - the aftermath of Giotto's fantastic chapel - and that strange couple with their list of art to view, and the only thing that remains is their maxim that you need no more than the local word for 'thank you' to visit a country. It is a good thing to have learned.

I tested this out in Egypt, ten years later. Yes, 'thank you' (shokran) and a smile does indeed work. I liked it so much, that for a moment or two, I actually wanted to stay in Egypt.

Now, I seem to prefer coming home again - even when the trees are bare, and the English sunshine is watery, at best.