It’s only been in the last year or so that I figured out what I really do for my chosen profession.

I’ve been reminded during the past six days, during my oh-so-pleasant stint as the tour leader for an incentive group of key advertiser clients for KYW Newsradio in Philadelphia. I think this is my 10th year with KYW – time enough for some guests to be repeat qualifiers for the station’s incentive reward. And so I have heard story after story about memories that I helped create years ago – some of which I’ve forgotten!

While I sometimes take it for granted (it’s my job, after all . . .), I have been reminded of the impact of these experiences – and how privileged I am to be part of that creative process.

There were memories of the year we went to Monaco – starting with the helicopter transfer from Nice Airport to the Monte Carlo Bay Hotel, where Michael spilled a chocolate martini in his lap and I rushed to wipe it up. The first and only time I chose Braised Rabbit as a main course, learning that most people aren’t too adventurous when it comes to cuisine. (“I’m not going to eat Thumper,” protested one woman!) That year began a tradition of naming our group. We were the Monacans.

Another year we went to Portugal, where we chartered a yellow trolley in Lisbon, listened to Fado music and enjoyed an amazing dinner of salt-baked codfish at a restaurant on the coast. Traveling north to Porto, we had a lovely cruise on the Duoro River and had dinner in a port warehouse. As for the name, the group chose: “The Lisboans (Not That There’s Anything Wrong With That . . .)”

Spain started with a few days in Barcelona before we flew to the island of Mallorca and enjoyed a few blissful days living like a local. We chartered a vintage wooden train to travel from Palma, through almond groves and past picturesque fincas (farmhouses) to the charming mountain town of Soller. We stayed at the Grand Hotel Soller, ate in cafes overlooking the town square, held our collective breath as our too-large-for-mountain-roads tour bus maneuvered along the narrow roads which were carved into the steep hillsides and had a private reception at the home of the famous writer, Robert Graves. (Our tour guide tried to disguise her horror when she realized we had absolutely no idea who he was!) That was the year when I learned that I can never, ever get complacent. After a flawless program, I was enjoying the farewell dinner in a beautiful country estate, complete with flamenco dancers. The main course was a beautiful tenderloin of beef, but they’d neglected to mention that they planned to serve it practically raw! Every single plate had to be sent back to the kitchen.

Panama was a slight deviation from their customary European destinations, but they enjoyed the “Crocky” spoof, the interaction with the Embera Indians and our private charter through the Panama Canal in a ship that was teeny, tiny when compared to the massive Panamax container ship that loomed over us in the Miraflores Lock. I’m drawing a blank on the group name but I’m betting that Jeff from KYW will help me out.

Ireland was two years ago. This trip included the single most memorable participant in my entire career. The girlfriend of an advertiser client was a brash, ballsy Boston-Irish woman who had absolutely no filter. We were collectively horrified, embarrassed and entertained every time she opened her mouth. Like the time she loudly

toasted (in a genteel restaurant setting), “Bottoms up, bitches!” and her brazen exchange with a Dublin bartender when she ordered a “Panty Dropper” cocktail. Another favorite memory were the pups at Mount Juliet Estate – offspring of the hunting hounds – who smothered us with kisses. Our group was called the “KYDubliners.”

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Last year – in another deviation from the European tradition – they traveled to Marrakech in Morocco. Stories of snake charmers, rug salesmen, the frequent call-to-prayer, goats that live in trees, the luxurious and historic Maison d’Arabe Riad where we stayed, ladies who grind argan nuts to extract the oil, the fabulous town of Essouria and a visit to the humble mountain home of a local Berber for tea – prior to a decadent lunch at Richard Branson’s Kasbah Tamadot. Our beloved tour guide, Moulay, who helped us understand the Muslim culture. And an unforgettable farewell in a tent out in the desert with torches, camels, fire eaters, hookah pipes, belly dancers and traditional blue turbans for all our guys. We were the “Amerikeshians.”

So I look forward, as always, to next year. Both for the fabulousness of whatever and wherever we experience, as well as for the memories that will be shared about this just-concluded experience in Provence. The perfect weather, the cooking lesson with Chef Jean Claude at La Mirande, the female? (was she or wasn’t she??) sommelier at the winery in Chateneuf du Pape, the spectacular Provencal villages, our classy Le Prieure hotel, lunch in the garden with Chef Elisabeth Bourgoise, serenade by our much-loved tour guide, Fanny (“with 2 Ns”), the outrageous first course at the Michelin-starred restaurant, the police who closed the streets and escorted our too-big motorcoach as the skillful driver backed the vehicle through the centuries-old neighborhoods of Villeneuve this morning when we departed . . . ah . . . the memories!