Don’t wear this @ AusPost

Yellow is not a good idea @ Ikea

Mistaken identity is not a concept that I’m unfamiliar with, from my school boy days of tireless “Mr Bean” taunts to my travels across the globe with an uncanny ability to be asked for directions in every city I visit it just seems to be one of those things I’ve become accustomed to. Today’s effort was without a doubt the most ludicrous to date, so much so that I just felt the need to share.

I had a few packages that required mailing, nothing particularly exciting there, in fact going to any post office within Melbourne’s CBD is like stepping in to a void where queues to tellers seem to grow longer rather than shorter and god forbid you visit one during your lunch hour because you’re bound to return to the office well beyond the hour you had to take in the first place! I’d done the right thing today, getting down to a new-to-me building as my working quarters has just relocated. It was much larger than my previous local, tellers at both ends of what seemed like an endless plateau of packaging wonders born down by eye piercing fluorescent light.

Collecting my required boxing materials I proceeded to one of the free “addressing areas” or as the casual observer may put it, “big black desk with pens on it” in the middle of the imaginary that is the Elizabeth St GPO. Two packages in to my five and an elderly gent beckons my attention wavering a scrawled shred of paper and looking clearly confused about where he was perhaps mistaking the brightness of lights for St. Peters gates.

“Excuse me, is this Bourke St?”
“No, this is Elizabeth St.” I replied.
“I’m trying to get to Little Collins St” he continued on, “Isn’t that it crossing over there?”

I felt sorry for the poor old guy he was practically entering cardiac arrest with confusion and being that this was, for once, the actual city I lived in where I was being asked for directions I didn’t mind helping him out.

“If you go back down this main street you’ll first cross Bourke Street and then the next one is Little Collins.” I explained.
Now as simple and clear as these instructions were there was a further five minute discussion detailing this sentence in perfect and repeated clarity until at some point the stars aligned themselves with Jupiter and a sense of calm broke out over his face with a sudden realisation that he didn’t have that far to go.

Satisfied with my good deed for the day I returned to my prior position behind the table picking up my pen to continue arduously inking addresses to cardboard, quickly flushing the warm glow that adorned me mere nano-seconds earlier.

“Excuse me, I just want to send…”

Looking up halfway through the postcode for Toowoomba (4350 by the way) across the black laminated surface of my desk stood not one, not two, but three complete strangers who had taken it upon themselves to queue for my rather inadequate postal services.

“I’m sorry, I…”
“I just want to send this to Sydney” she cut in, thrusting a yellowed envelope beneath my face.
“I’m sorry I don’t work here, I’m just trying to address some packages” I finally managed to say.
“Oh… I thought you did.” (well that’s kind of obvious really now isn’t it) “It’s that red shirt you’re wearing” she stated before trouncing off in disgust.
“You mean the red shirt with the giant logo looking like Colonel Sanders from KFC on it?” I thought to myself before looking up at the remaining pseudo queue with a comical shrugged look to which was returned, and I kid you not, a roll of the eyes and an audible “tsk”! I’m sorry Sir, the next time I’m trying to mail something I’ll be sure to make sure I’ve completed Australia Post’s induction course and can tend your enquiry in a more satisfactory manner next time. Moron.

I can’t blame them though, it’s like Christmas walking in to a post office and seeing no one in the queue I would’ve dove in like them too more than likely! The point is it was the shirt that did it, wearing a colour that was in some way reminiscent of the establishment’s uniform and that I should’ve been more aware of that as it’s not the first time I’ve had it happen, Ikea being the other major offender. Blue jeans and a yellow shirt in Ikea is either a recipe for constant annoyance or utter mayhem depending on your psychological stance. I’ve lost count of the amount of times I’ve been asked for directions/building advice/to lift something/measurements/and alike in Ikea, one day I think I’ll jump behind a register and start scanning things while yelling “beep” and proclaiming the line to be “cash only”.

The moral of the story boys and girls is that all of this was clearly my fault for choosing to wear the wrong thing in the wrong place, god forbid humanity to be aware of their surroundings. I will endeavour to ensure my clothing better contrasting those places of chance social interaction to not confuse you world. My bad.

It seems that regardless of city, in fact regardless of country, I am seemingly one of the most geographically aware persons on the planet. Just this Sunday on a quick run to the Eaton Centre to buy a pair of jeans, not more than ten minutes walk to and from my home, I was approached for directions not once, not twice, but trois times. I’m not particularly bothered by it these days, in fact I’m kind of used to it. Nine times out of ten I have no idea where the street/landmark/car park/train station/monument they’re after is but if they’re particularly nice about it I can use my iPhone to look it up for them.

After this Sunday’s particularly high direction-asking-count I started to think why it is that I’m approached. It’s not like I have “local tour guide” tattooed across my forehead in UV ink (well not that I’m aware of; hang on a minute I’m going to check…. …. … nope, I don’t), so why is it that I, instead of the hundreds of people around me is asked. Behold; “The top 5 reasons I’m asked for directions (in foreign countries)”

1. I walk like I know where I’m going
I’m not a dawdler. When I’m walking somewhere (regardless of if I know where “where” is) I walk with purpose; with “vigor” if you will. While some people may like to soak up the atmosphere of unfamiliar territory I prefer to do that off to the side, stopped, and out of the way of other pedestrians. This is probably because it annoys the hell out of me when tourists do it in my home town.

2. My racially independent aesthetics
Taking a look at me it would be difficult for most people to pick exactly what my origins are. Black hair, half olive skin, the lines of physical racial stereotypes become kind of blurred. People generally look at me like I’m retarded when an Aussie accent emerges and I tell them I have no idea where or what they’re talking about. A perfect example would be my time in Paris where at first I’d be polite and throw a “Pardon, je ne comprends pas” at them, but it was much more fun to watch their jaws drop with a “nah mate” reply.

3. I’m the least intimidating individual in the vicinity
I wouldn’t think downtown Toronto or Seattle are places that would be particularly scary during the day but as with all cities there are some unsavory folk about. In my opinion they are in the minority in comparison to your average ham sandwich beating the pavement going about their daily grind. Perhaps its because I’m not wearing a tie, maybe they’re the scary ones and all the guys with empty Starbuck cups rattling for change are the normal peeps?

4. 90% of the time I’m wearing headphones
Now this one confuses me a little. I would have thought the fact that you’re wearing “environmental-sensory-depravation-tools” (AKA headphones) would actual detract people from approaching you. For me I listen to music wherever I am in the world. Occasionally I’ll tune into the soul of a new city, getting a feel for it’s subtle overtures until people start looking at me funny and wonder why I’m conducting what is to them an invisible symphony atop a sewer grate of a major intersection. Maybe it looks like I’m listening to an audio tour of my current locale? If I had a Lonely Planet book in my hands maybe.

5. I’m just a nice, helpful, smiley guy and people can sense that
Now anyone that knows me will have either ruptured their bladder because they’re in public and wetting themselves would not be appropriate, although now you should get to a hospital pretty quick, ruptured bladder and all; or you’ve now noticed that the warm feeling of pee down your inside leg is starting to cool and you need to change. I know what I look like walking, trust me people have told me. I’m a petulant bastard that wants to get where he’s going and that about sums it all up. If I’m the happiest looking person on the street than we’re living in a very sad world and I’ll need to take up a religion and find out who or what to pray to for our souls. Who’s that alien dude the scientists guys worship? I think I’ll go watch Battlefield Earth now and find out.