A bar, Washington DC, late '70's, me in uniform (wearing beret at the request of my hosts, special forces blah).
I meet my mothers next door neighbours son. Unbelievable. 10 mins of 'what the hell are you doing here?' etc etc before RTB to hotel. Exit bar, only to be instructed by 2 men in cheap suits to 'step away from the vehicle'. This request was backed up by ironmongery of the Smith and Wesson type.
After much British bravado (ie crapping myself), I found out that my mothers next door neighbours son was a major drug dealer in DC and I had walked into a federal anti-narcotics raid.
From spotty Yorkshire schoolboy to international drug dealer (him, not me), shows you what O Level Geography can do.
Further to this, the next morning explaining to the Brigadier at BDLS what had happened, it turned out that I had almost blown the operation by calling the guy by his first name. His name was Marshall. As I pronounced it, as in 'MARSHALL, what are you doing here?', various shady characters left the bar.
Talk about Dodge City.