THE MAN WHO KNOWS THE WAY
Does anyone resemble the guy who gets asked directions all the time?
Cause I do.
In fact I look so much like him (the mythic creature as he is) that I am often asked by lost people all over the world, all kinds of things that I cannot answer.
I am known as the man who looks like he knows but does not know.
What is it about my face that makes people want to run up and ask questions?
Is it an expression?
Is it a smile I have?
An arch of the eyebrows?
Is it a uniform I am wearing? A shirt that attracts attention?
Nothing seems obvious.
Some guys never get asked anything. There are plenty in my neighborhood. No one would dare ask them anything for fear of serious reprisals or a whole lot of time wasting.
I want to look like one of these guys.
Because I can pretty much gaurantee you right now that not only do I not know your way. I don't even know my way.
Plus, with living in France (and I was under the impression that this would help with my plight), I look different. I definitely do not look like I am from around here.
People don't even need to hear me speak to start putting on their best attempt at English. I believe it to be the body mass. Or the clothes. Or the combination of the body mass and the clothes.
So I do not look local but it appears that I look like I have my act together sufficient enough to be asked directions. I suppose this is a compliment. But it has become a minor glitch in an otherwise perfect state of total anonymity.
The other day I had to tell an old man wearing a fur hat that I didn't even think there were names of roads where we were.
"There has to be the name of a road," he said.
"That would be something. But I don't think so. I have not seen a name of street since I got out of the station"
"In the banlieu," he said "No one labels their streets. But I was hoping you would know."
"Why?"
He didn't answer. I could tell now he had regretted asking me.
"They like to see us suffer." I added, trying to make light of it all.
The man stared at me. He didn't get my joke. I do not think he was used to sarcasm in this form before. He appeared to see something out of the corner of his cloudy eye.
"I think they're looking at us now through those lace curtains in that ground floor apartment building over there."
We turned quickly to spot whom he had thought he'd seen but they were obviously gone now.
We ended up walking off in seperate directions. I felt impotent.
I suppose the lesson here is that simple suburb signage would put an end to this suffering but it would also get rid of locals peeping out their windows at lost people. It is a spectacle the whole family can enjoy.
Besides, the guy felt like a plant.
I have another anecdote ....
One time I was waiting at Charles De Gaulle airport for a friend's arrival. I was not even flying, I was waiting for a friend.
I was eating a sandwich in Departures. A soggy smoked salmon sandiwch on pita bread at seven o'clock in the morning. They had better sandwiches in Departures.
A group of Indians with puzzled but serene faces approached me. Again, I wish to emphasize that I was a simple civilian. But this time, it's not even about directions, it's about baggage allowances. I'm listening. They're asking me what is the maximum weight allowance per passenger on an economy flight.
I notice that we are a good twenty metres from the check in desk.
"I do not work for this airline."
"We thought you did."
"Why? Tell me why you thought I worked for this airline! I must know."
They paused as if all of them, the kids and the adults included, knew I would ask this question. The man at the front gathered his thoughts.
"Answer our question first and we will tell you why we think you are the one."
"That's not fair."
"Life isn't fair!"
"Why am I the one?"
"You would like to know, wouldn't you? You would like to know why out of all the people in this airport, you are the one we would ask this question."
"More than anything in the world," I begged.
"Tell you what. We will tell you, " said this academic looking father figure. With his greying temples, he passed for a wise shaman-like figure.
"Only if you answer our question," he continued. "Then we will tell you why you are the one we think knows the way ...."
"The truth is I don't know. Honestly. I am standing here waiting for a friend. I have no idea what the maximum baggage allowance per bag is for you and your family. Collectively or individually. Economy or business class. Why don't you go up and ask the people in uniforms that work here. There. That would be the sensible thing to do, would it not? "
I point to the Quantas desk at a lonely woman in uniform at one of the counters. She is doing nothing. Ironically, she also looks like she knows the way. I then look upon their faces. The dissappointment is palpable.
The elderly spokesman steps closer.
"Well now you will never know why we asked you. You will never know why you are the guy that all around the world, we have collectively agreed to ask upon, in these type of situations."
And with this, he turned and bid the gathering to walk away. They retreated, shoulders slumped. They looked like a proud but diconcerted tribe.
My heart was torn. I felt boken inside. Lost.
But I didn't appear that way.
Outwardly I looked like someone who really had his shit together and would totally know the way if only you would go up and ask him.
Does anyone resemble the guy who gets asked directions all the time?
Cause I do.
In fact I look so much like him (the mythic creature as he is) that I am often asked by lost people all over the world, all kinds of things that I cannot answer.
I am known as the man who looks like he knows but does not know.
What is it about my face that makes people want to run up and ask questions?
Is it an expression?
Is it a smile I have?
An arch of the eyebrows?
Is it a uniform I am wearing? A shirt that attracts attention?
Nothing seems obvious.
Some guys never get asked anything. There are plenty in my neighborhood. No one would dare ask them anything for fear of serious reprisals or a whole lot of time wasting.
I want to look like one of these guys.
Because I can pretty much gaurantee you right now that not only do I not know your way. I don't even know my way.
Plus, with living in France (and I was under the impression that this would help with my plight), I look different. I definitely do not look like I am from around here.
People don't even need to hear me speak to start putting on their best attempt at English. I believe it to be the body mass. Or the clothes. Or the combination of the body mass and the clothes.
So I do not look local but it appears that I look like I have my act together sufficient enough to be asked directions. I suppose this is a compliment. But it has become a minor glitch in an otherwise perfect state of total anonymity.
The other day I had to tell an old man wearing a fur hat that I didn't even think there were names of roads where we were.
"There has to be the name of a road," he said.
"That would be something. But I don't think so. I have not seen a name of street since I got out of the station"
"In the banlieu," he said "No one labels their streets. But I was hoping you would know."
"Why?"
He didn't answer. I could tell now he had regretted asking me.
"They like to see us suffer." I added, trying to make light of it all.
The man stared at me. He didn't get my joke. I do not think he was used to sarcasm in this form before. He appeared to see something out of the corner of his cloudy eye.
"I think they're looking at us now through those lace curtains in that ground floor apartment building over there."
We turned quickly to spot whom he had thought he'd seen but they were obviously gone now.
We ended up walking off in seperate directions. I felt impotent.
I suppose the lesson here is that simple suburb signage would put an end to this suffering but it would also get rid of locals peeping out their windows at lost people. It is a spectacle the whole family can enjoy.
Besides, the guy felt like a plant.
I have another anecdote ....
One time I was waiting at Charles De Gaulle airport for a friend's arrival. I was not even flying, I was waiting for a friend.
I was eating a sandwich in Departures. A soggy smoked salmon sandiwch on pita bread at seven o'clock in the morning. They had better sandwiches in Departures.
A group of Indians with puzzled but serene faces approached me. Again, I wish to emphasize that I was a simple civilian. But this time, it's not even about directions, it's about baggage allowances. I'm listening. They're asking me what is the maximum weight allowance per passenger on an economy flight.
I notice that we are a good twenty metres from the check in desk.
"I do not work for this airline."
"We thought you did."
"Why? Tell me why you thought I worked for this airline! I must know."
They paused as if all of them, the kids and the adults included, knew I would ask this question. The man at the front gathered his thoughts.
"Answer our question first and we will tell you why we think you are the one."
"That's not fair."
"Life isn't fair!"
"Why am I the one?"
"You would like to know, wouldn't you? You would like to know why out of all the people in this airport, you are the one we would ask this question."
"More than anything in the world," I begged.
"Tell you what. We will tell you, " said this academic looking father figure. With his greying temples, he passed for a wise shaman-like figure.
"Only if you answer our question," he continued. "Then we will tell you why you are the one we think knows the way ...."
"The truth is I don't know. Honestly. I am standing here waiting for a friend. I have no idea what the maximum baggage allowance per bag is for you and your family. Collectively or individually. Economy or business class. Why don't you go up and ask the people in uniforms that work here. There. That would be the sensible thing to do, would it not? "
I point to the Quantas desk at a lonely woman in uniform at one of the counters. She is doing nothing. Ironically, she also looks like she knows the way. I then look upon their faces. The dissappointment is palpable.
The elderly spokesman steps closer.
"Well now you will never know why we asked you. You will never know why you are the guy that all around the world, we have collectively agreed to ask upon, in these type of situations."
And with this, he turned and bid the gathering to walk away. They retreated, shoulders slumped. They looked like a proud but diconcerted tribe.
My heart was torn. I felt boken inside. Lost.
But I didn't appear that way.
Outwardly I looked like someone who really had his shit together and would totally know the way if only you would go up and ask him.
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