tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7686152.post-1091231706971674162004-07-30T16:52:00.000-07:002004-07-31T11:58:29.343-07:00On a recent trip to the city, S and I were walking down a street downtown when this young woman walked up to us and said, “do you live here?” (okay, she asked S – S always gets approached – she’s the nice one. I’m the one who has perfected the ‘don’t come near me unless you want to give me money’ vibe) <br /> <br />I have to say that I hate open-ended questions like that – it’s like when someone says what are you doing tomorrow and I’m like, depends. Are you going to make some demand on my time or do you want to give me a ticket to a sold-out event I would kill to see because your kid has come down with scabies? Or when someone calls me and says, “who’s this?” True story. And I’m thinking, you called me, bozo. You don’t to get to ask that. I get to ask that, which I do on a regular basis because, nobody, nobody, tells me who they are when I pick up the phone, except S’s mom who announces her name; first and last, in case I might not quite be able to place her after answering her calls for only 15 years. Mind you after having to deal with me all those years, she may well know exactly what she's doing. <br /> <br />Anyway, so the young woman says, do you live here? We say we used to. Then she says something about everyone around here being liars and that nobody will tell her the truth. She wants bus directions to a specific spot that doesn’t sound familiar to us, as the transit system has changed considerably since we lived here. We’re sorry, we say, we’re not sure and she almost has a full-fledged breakdown in front of us. She stomps off to a nearby jewellery store, where I’m sure they’ll be happy to assist her, provided she buys a $2000 watch. <br /> <br />The next day I’m headed off to a meeting in an area of town I haven’t been to before. As I’m on my way to catch the train I realize I have a vague idea where the station is but I am not sure exactly which street it is on. So I ask someone walking by me. She says, actually I don’t live here. Interesting, I think. Now this is a place that gets a lot of tourists and S and I had figured that the woman from the day before had been a victim of the downtown core being invaded by visitors. So here was proof. <br /> <br />Then I see someone captive at a bus stop, a transit user who will probably know the whereabouts of the train station. I walk towards her. She is clearly discomfited by my apparent zeroing in on her. I start to ask her about the location and she promptly says, I don’t know anything. Wow, tough way to live, I think, but clearly she is far more unnerved by me than I am in need of the information, so I move on. <br /> <br />A guy on a bike is stopped at the light. Train station, I say and point in the direction I think it is, as if by cutting to the chase I can make it clear that I just want confirmation or correction from him, nothing more. He actually answers me and points me to the right street. At that point I am pretty darn grateful just to have someone attempt to answer my question. Thank you kind man on the bicycle. Thank you for sparing me a complete breakdown on a public street. Speaking of which, I wonder if that young woman is still wandering around cursing out the stupid liars and tourists who won't help her find her way home. Just in case, I think I'll avoid that particular stretch. After all, hell hath no fury like a woman lost. Bubbleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01781146531102954747noreply@blogger.com