More from Daft Old Duffer, in his own words. Ed
I was wandering around Bordeaux when I spotted an indoor market and went in to investigate. But it was near midday and everyone had packed up for the day.
Still there was a counter off to one side lined with traders having a drink before heading home. I went across and brought myself a coke.
They turned out to be a friendly bunch and when they heard my accent asked where I was from, why, what and who?
As a result, there is one part of France that knows a little bit more about the Isle of Wight.
The tragedy of mis-interpretation
One of the guys was especially friendly and we continued to chat after everyone else had returned to their own affairs. He was a tall black bloke and we clicked as friends straight away.
Until, just making conversation, I asked him where he was from. I meant merely was he a local or had he travelled into town for the market?.
But his change of expression made it plain that was not what he had understood. He had read my curiosity as ‘You’re a black guy. What are you doing here in this white man’s city?’
He turned away, clearly hurt at what he saw as my racist insult. I struggled to explain, to apologise. But my French, already under strain, failed me completely. I left in a pool of hostile silence, a racist without even trying.
The memory gnaws at my guts to this day.
Image: Francis Storr under CC BY 2.0
