Stories from over there

Stories from over there.

One afternoon in June I was bowling down Leith Walk for the 8^th time that day. I was driving the number 22, the busiest bus route in Edinburgh. The sky was blue and the bus was semi full of commuters and tourists trying to wrestle themselves to another more favourable position in the city. The next person to join us in our disgruntled sweaty party was a man who had clearly just emerged from a pleasant afternoon in the pub . Swaying a little he was very much in the mood for singing.

“Oh flower o Scotlan….” he began, positioning himself at the front of the bus in the natural stage like area.

“Come on everybody” he optimistically encouraged us all. “when will we see….” Unfortunately nobody else was of a similarly spirited mood and his ambitions of a commuter choir were somewhat hampered.

“Who here is Scottish?” He asks trying to appeal to his countrymen. Either there is not a single Scot cruising down one of the main arteries of the Scottish capital on a bus on a busy summers day, or they are remaining anonymous.

He turns to me, the driver. “You must be Scottish?”

I feel bad for crushing his assumptions. I shake my head. He turns back to his audience and tries to make the best of the situation and embarks on a meet and greet, Working the crowd like pro.

“Where ya from?” he asks the three dark haired women on the first row.

“Spain” say they.

“Ah Spain” he repeats “olla! What you doing in Scotland? Much better weather in Spain” He asks without waiting for a reply. He smiles at his own masterful international panache.

He moves on like a games show host. “Where you from” he asks the next bunch of foreigners “Canada” say they.

“Oh Canada’s a great country” he says my brother lives there. Been there 25 years he tells them. They hadn’t heard of him.

Proud of himself, he can converse with folk from all corners of the earth. Such is his friendly demeanour. He moves around swiftly grilling those around him and reaches three uncomfortable looking young men. Standing in the wheelchair bay. “Where you from?” He asks

“Russia”

For the first time he falls silent. He has nothing in his bank of replies. I can imagine him riffling through mentally.

Up front I chuckle to myself. Not so international now.