How A Lost Frenchman Restored My Faith In Humanity

On the 18^th September, Scotland held its long-awaited, historic independence referendum.

Don’t worry, this isn’t going to be a political entry (There’s plenty of that over on my new politics blog), but it’s necessary for contextualizing today’s anecdote.

So, as I was saying: referendum. As you more than likely know, Scotland voted No to independence, with a 55%-45% divide. I was a Yes voter, and needless to say the No vote gave me more than a wee bit o’ the glaikit stare, och aye, it wasnae nice, nae it wasnae.

With my glaikit stare (emphasised by the fact we’d stayed up all night roaming the city and watching the TV coverage) the most prominent feature of my face throughout the day on the 19^th September, I escorted my visiting, equally glaikit-staring friend to Edinburgh’s Waverley Station and waved him goodbye with a glaikit hand.

On my way back, I decided to go on a detour around a dark and foggy Edinburgh. My route took me past Bute House, the official residence of the first minister, where earlier just that day Alex Salmond had announced his resignation.

I sighed and moved on.

Heading down the dark, winding King’s Stables Road towards Grassmarket, away in a dismal wee dream, I noticed a nervously shuffling figure shimmy out of the dim mist. He seemed to be muttering panicked French curses in an alarming way.

As I made to shift past the distressed young Frenchman, he suddenly seemed to notice me and hurried over.

“Excuseh me, sir.” He muttered.

“Yes?” I muttered back glaikitly.

“I, eh, seem to be, eh… unable to find my way.”

“You’re lost?”

“Yes.”

“Ah.”

“Where is, eh… le Haymarket?”

“Haymarket? Like the train station? Are you sure you don’t mean Grassmarket?”

“Yes, I am looking for Haymarket.”

“Ah.”

I felt a pang of sympathy for the young Frenchman at this point because he was absolutely nowhere near Haymarket.

“Do you know where it is?” He asked, despair dripping from his voice and putting my own dull mood to shame.

“Yes, it’s, uh…” I gestured in the rough direction of Haymarket, knowing that if he followed where I was pointing he could just as easily end up wandering straight past it and on for hours to the Forth bridges, Fife or Perth.

“Maybe we should look it up on a map. Do you have a pho-?”

He wrenched a massive phone-shaped brick from his pocket at this point and chuckled. “I am French. Our mobiles are, uh, quite shit.”

“Ah. I’ll use mine then.”

So I took out my phone and started searching for where the young Frenchman was wanting to go. It turned out he was meant to be meeting a group of friends at a fancy restaurant on Dalry Road and had somehow lost his way quite spectacularly.

The only problem was that the route he would have to take was quite winding, especially for a visitor unused to the labyrinthine streets of Edinburgh.

“Do you think you’ll be able to find your way here?” I asked, pointing to his end destination.

“Yeees?” He replied, hesitantly.

I knew at that moment if I let him go on his way he’d end up going so far off course he’d probably end up wandering through the night until he fell into Loch Tay.

“Okay, let’s write out the directions.” I said, taking out my notebook and pen.

The look of surprise on people’s faces when you spontaneously pull out a notebook and pen is priceless.

I turned to lean on the wall, but it was damp, mossy and, I kid you not, covered in snails. 

“Oh look, snails,” I commented.

“I love snails!” The young Frenchman laughed.

It’s okay to laugh at stereotypes if the subject of the stereotype makes the joke, right? Right!?

Leaning on my knee instead of the mossy wall, I started to write. “So it’s a left up here onto Lothian Road…” Scribble scribble. “A right onto West Approach Road…” Scribble scribble. “Then you head up to the A8…” Scribble scribble. “And turn left onto Dalry Road. Easy!” I decided not to embarrass us both by using the words ‘Gauche’ and ‘Droit’, as tempted as I was to unleash my poor high school French.

He was delighted when I handed him the sheet of paper, and the relief on his face was apparent. “Sank you – sank you!” He reached out his hand and for a moment I thought he was wanted to shake mine, but instead he dropped a £2 coin into the palm of my hand. “For your service.”

I tried to return it, but he insisted. “For your service, my friend!” He said, and scurried off into the night.

Now I’m not saying that money is what makes me happy, or that my friendship comes at a monetary cost, but the gesture was so kind that I immediately felt much better with the world than I had before. The fact that there is kindness and that there are interesting characters everywhere gave me a boost.

I spent the coin on a cheap baguette in the Grassmarket in honour of my briefly encountered friend, and ate it smiling on the way back to my flat. As always, when there seems to be a lot of despair in the world, faint glimmers of hope start shining through. One of mine just happened to be an ill-equipped Frenchman with a poor sense of direction.