I must look like I know where I'm going

              There’s a very perplexing phenomenon that I encounter whenever I live abroad.  Frequently, as I am walking down the street minding my own business, people stop me to ask me for directions.  Yesterday alone, two different Kyrgyz came up to me as I was wandering to lunch to ask me where something was.  Both times, all I was able to do was shrug my shoulders and mutter in broken Russian:  “Я не Знаю,” which means, “I don’t know.” 

It was amusing to see the looks on both of their faces when they encountered what they must have thought was the one ethnic Russian Kyrgyz in Bishkek who clearly hadn’t been able to pass the first grade.  After their initial horror, they would scamper past me quickly to find someone else who might be a bit more knowledgeable and significantly less inarticulate.

This happens to me at least once or twice a week in Kyrgyzstan and has caused me to wonder why it is I must look like I know where I'm going.  And this isn’t a phenomenon limited to Kyrgyzstan.  When I lived in the Netherlands and would be strolling the streets of Amsterdam, I always had tourists inquiring as to where the Anne Frank House or Rijksmuseum might be.  They would come up to me and ask, “Do you speak English?”  “Why, of course I do,” I would reply.  Then they would complement me on my excellent English and I would tell them that, despite the fact I was raised in distressingly close proximity to the state of Idaho, I had somehow managed to master the English language.  Then they would apologize and say they hadn’t realized I was an American.  "Not to worry," I would assure them before directing them to the tourist attraction they couldn’t locate on their own. 

Living in Florence provided me a similar experience as tourists, and even Italians, were constantly asking me where museums, hotels, and banks were located.  Even when I was a tourist myself, on Walton Scholar recruiting trips in Central America, I have had people come up to me in the old Guatemalan colonial city of Antigua, in rollicking Panama City, and in all points between, searching for directions.  Only when I lived in Japan, was I completely free from the questions of where things were.  Not only did one glance at me convince the average Japanese citizen that I would be of no use in communicating anything at all, but the sight of me could sometimes even cause them to hurriedly rush to the other side of the street to avoid me altogether.  Perhaps it was a blessing in disguise that I could not blend in while in Japan as I actually didn’t know where I was going half the time I lived there.

So, I am left to wonder why it is people seek me out so frequently to find out where it is they are going.  Maybe it is because everyone’s frequency of not knowing where they are in the world is so high that we can’t help but encounter lost souls along our way.  Or, perhaps, if I become weary of strangers seeking my counsel, I should simply start walking more quickly with my head down.