08.18.03 | Don't Ask Me For Directions

Today I was walking back from the gym to our flat. A bloke (the general British term for your average Joe) stops me along the way and asks where the West Brompton rail station is. Now understand, I am in my full 100-percent American garb -- blue cargo shorts, gray T-shirt with "George Washington University" emblazoned on it, white socks (the key tip-off) and white tennis shoes -- and here is this British guy asking me for directions.

West Brompton…I rolled the name around in my head. It didn't sound familiar. Wanting to be helpful, I directed him to what I knew was the closet tube station, West Kensington, the one near our flat. He seemed a bit confused but thanked me and went on his way.

Only later after getting home and looking at a map did I realize that I was a complete doofus. The West Brompton tube stop was only a five-minute walk from where we were standing. By sending him up to West Kensington and having him take the tube back to West Brompton, I added at least 20 minutes to the guy's journey.

About a week later, again while walking down the road, a guy pulled over in his car, rolled down the window and asked me where Charing Cross Hospital was. Wanting to right my previous wrong and having just recently learned of the hospital's location, I proudly told the guy how to get there.

"You go down North End road 'till you get to the roundabout," I noted. "Then go right, take Lillie Road to Fulham Palace Road and turn left. Drive down just a little bit and you can't miss it on your left." He thanked me and motored off. I was feeling quite proud for about, oh, 20 seconds until I realized that to get to the hospital from my location one had to turn right on Fulham Palace Road, not left.

Great. The guy was probably on the way to the hospital to see his wife deliver a baby or donate a kidney or something. Or donate a kidney to a baby.

I need to wear a T-shirt that reads: "U.K. residents: Don't ask the dopey American ex-pat for directions." << REWIND