The Kindness of Strangers

The Kindness of Strangers, published in 2003 by Lonely Planet Publications, is a compilation of travel stories proving that even the most hardened traveler will come to rely on the helping hand of a stranger.

In that book, seasoned travel writer, Don George, wrote:
"In 25 years of wandering the world, I have learned two things: the first is that when you travel, at some point you will find yourself out of money, out of food, unable to find a room, lost in a big city, or on a remote trail stranded in the middle of nowhere. The second is that someone will miraculously emerge to take care of you--to lend you money, feed you, put you up for the night, lead you to where you want to go. Whatever the situation, dramatic or mundane, some stranger will save you."

While reading the book, I couldn’t help but think of my own brushes with the kindness of strangers. While exploring the world, I have never run out of money, or food, but like most people, I have come to rely on strangers to help me on my way.

Fifteen years ago (longer ago than I care to remember), I visited France, as part of a two-month, trek through Europe. I had always heard, and still do for that matter, that the French are rude and not overly helpful towards tourists. But my experience on a cool, windy day, in a small French town shattered those pre-conceptions.

We were the only ones to step off the train in Arras. It was eerily quiet. Our intended destination was Vimy, a sacred place where thousands of Canadians lost their lives in the First World War. From the station, our guidebook suggested that Vimy was a “healthy hike”. But not knowing if the author was a marathon walker or a couch potato, we weren’t quite sure what a “healthy hike” was.

We wandered around to the front of the station, which looked just as deserted. The only clue to our destination was a small guidepost, which pointed in one direction. After a few minutes, we waved a car down, and I tried to summon all the French I had learned in school, which wasn’t much. There were three people in the car, and we spoke to a man, probably in his forties, who was sitting in the passenger seat.

He told us his father would return and drive us to the Memorial. Minutes later we found ourselves in the little car, zipping along a country road. The older man chatted away in French, and I in English. It all seemed to make sense. I could tell that he was grateful for the sacrifice made by Canadians. When we got to Vimy, he arranged with another visitor to drive us back.

The day ended when a couple from North Vancouver drove us back to the train station and offered us a bottle of wine, one of many they had purchased on their travels through France.

While on the same trip, we found ourselves in St. Goar, a quaint village on the banks of the Rhein River. The youth hostel was located in an old castle. Most castles were built in difficult to reach places. This particular one was perched on a cliff-side, high above the river. As we searched for the trail that would lead us up the mountain, a man stopped his car and asked if we were going to the youth hostel. “Jump in,” he said, “I’ll drive you up there.” The man lived in St. Goar and always felt sorry that visitors had to walk up to the hostel, so whenever if he sees someone, he offers them a ride.

In early 1998, Carrie and I were in Seoul, Korea. Carrie’s health was deteriorating, and we spent many days at the hospital seeing doctors. On one occasion, she had to have a number of tests, all of which had to be paid for in advance. Each wasn’t overly costly, but after several of these tests, my wallet had been emptied of cash. Turned out the hospital didn’t accept credit cards, so I went to a bank machine in hospital lobby. At the time, only a handful of ATMs in Seoul accepted foreign bank cards. And this wasn’t one of them.

Another test was ordered, but now I had to show my empty wallet to the nurse. It was difficult communicating to the nurse. How did I tell her that I had money, it was just in the bank not my wallet. Then an older woman, who seemed like a hospital volunteer, overheard our conversation and offered to pay for the tests. She gave me her bank account number and I assured her we would return the money in a few days time.

The next day, I was telling my students about this woman’s kind gesture. At the end of the class one of the students offered to make the deposit for me. I gave her the money and the next day she gave me a receipt from the bank.

A number of years ago, my wife and I were in Sydney, Australia (not to be confused with Sydney, Nova Scotia, where the odd wayward traveler some times ends up instead). It was late afternoon and we left the downtown area for my brother-in-law’s house, north of the city. We had the vaguest idea where we were going. Instead of taking the bus all the way, we decided to take a small ferry part way before connecting to a bus.

After some uncertainty as to which bus to take and where to get off, we arrived at a shopping centre, which served as a hub for city buses. We weren’t far from Bob’s house, but we still needed to find the right route to his house.

I should point out that it was May (late Fall in Australia), and I was the only person wandering around in shorts and a t-shirt. A cool rain had already started falling. And everyone we asked had no idea how to get to Bob’s house. Finally, after looking lost and being told to wait at various stops, a bus driver came to us and said, “My shift is over, you can hop on my bus.” He was delivering his bus to the depot, but on his way he made a detour, and dropped us off in front of Bob’s house. When we told my sister-in-law, a native Australian, about the kind bus driver that just dropped us off. She didn’t believe our story. “Our bus drivers aren’t that nice,” she said.” Well Des, there’s at least one.

When Carrie and I visited Iran, a work colleague arranged for her brother, who we had never met before, to tour us around Tehran. In the morning, Fereidoon arrived with a bouquet of flowers for Carrie. We climbed in his car, and drove through the crowded and chaotic streets of Tehran. Then we visited his parent’s home in the northern part of the city, where Iranian hospitality included copious amounts of tea, oranges, and cake. After filling our stomachs we headed off to Fereidoon’s home, about 40 minutes west of the Tehran, where his wife had prepared a gastronomic feast.

After a lazy afternoon, sharing stories with Fereidoon and his family, he drove us back into the city. The following morning we left Iran for a few days and traveled to Sharjah, one of the United Arab Emirates. We spent a few days here before returning to Iran and visiting Esfahan and Shiraz. Fereidoon offered to pick up our plane tickets and hotel reservations from the tour company, and would meet us at the airport around noon on the day we were scheduled to arrive back in Tehran.

As it turned out our morning flight from Sharjah to Iran had been cancelled. We were booked on on another flight, but it wouldn’t leave until 11:00 pm that night. This delay meant that we would miss our flight to Esfahan, and Fereidoon still had our tickets for the rest of our trip. He assured us by telephone that someone would be waiting for us at the airport with the tickets. When we arrived in Tehran, at 1:00 am, Fereidoon was there. But how and when would we get to Esfahan. Turned out Fereidoon had arranged an overnight taxi. And so we found ourselves racing across the Iranian desert in the middle of the night.

After a few days ambling through two of Iran's most beautiful and historic cities, we flew back to Tehran, where Fereidoon was again waiting. This time he took us back to his parent’s place where we stayed the night and enjoyed dinner with what seemed like family. Fereidoon's kindness and that of his family were a reflection of Persian hospitality.

Before arriving in Bucharest, my impressions of Romania were largely negative ones.
From all the stories I heard, I half expected to be attacked by roving gangs of gypsy kids at the airport. Instead, I was offered a ride into the city. I was looking for the bus outside the terminal and asked someone where the correct stop was. A man pointed to the stop a short distance away, but said that he was driving back into the city, and offered me a ride. What a pleasant introduction to Romania, as we drove into the city past wide, tree-lined boulevards.

I often reflect on these stories, and wonder if we would do the same. Would we open our homes or our wallets to someone we had never met? Would we go out of our way to drive a stranger somewhere? I like to think we would. You too must have stories of your own, when a stranger offered you a helping hand.