I grew up in the suburbs of middle America. Milwaukee born, then moved to Omaha when I was 8. Both areas where I lived had good public schools, little crime, and (at least from my perspective) everyone had a roof over their heads.
Then I went to college (or as the Brits call it, Uni) at the University of Wisconsin. Walking down State Street to school every morning I’d encounter more than a handful of less fortunate asking for money. The best were funny about it, and would even sing a tune for a dollar.
I had always read giving someone money on the street would likely result in them simply buying more booze, so I refrained.
Ah hah!
A year went by of ignoring these requests when I started noticing the same people every day asking for money. Then another year went by… and again, mostly the same faces. By my senior year I actually made quasi friends with a few of the ‘street dwellers’ – and believe it or not one even told me they had an apartment just down the street.
WELL NOW, upon hearing this news about ‘professional’ beggars living comfortably in an apartment near by – my views on giving became further entrenched. And this is how they’ve remained unchanged the last 10 years through moving to Milwaukee after school, and then to London 4 years ago.
The long trip home
This weekend Tara and I saw Thriller with some friends. It was more high school karaoke than West End musical; a local pint helped ease the £40 ticket price. On the way home we gawked at the new Audi dealership – next to the Ritz Carlton no less. The epitome of cool opulence (the A8S was especially schnazzy).
A small woman huddling in a corner of the dealership’s glistening marble facade caught my eye. She was clutching a rolling bag and her old school Blackberry. We continued toward the tube when I stopped for a good 10 seconds picturing her distressed face before walking back to ask if she needed some help.
As I approached I noticed she was crying.
“Are you okay Ms.? Can I call someone for you?” I asked. “I’m okay, thank you,” she replied in a puppy dog whimper.
Based on 10 years of actively ignoring anyone on the street, inquiring if someone was okay typically ticked this year’s compassion box. This seemed different. The woman was normally dressed and didn’t ask for money. When I inquired a second time with more emphasis if there was really anything I could do, she started speaking quickly.
“I don’t have any place to stay, and I missed my bus of 72 hours to Warsaw.” She continued softly, “My mother can’t wire me money, and the bus company wouldn’t take my ticket, now I have to wait until Thursday for the next bus.”
What I gathered from a few more questions was this woman had bought a heavily discounted bus ticket to Warsaw, but had missed this bus and it ran infrequently. The bus company wouldn’t let her take the next bus because the fare £23.00 more expensive.
Givers remorse?
After taking all of this in, without really thinking I replied “If that’s all you need, I can help,” and I handed over £30.
She looked at me like some kind of deity, with her mouth open wide. I asked if she knew how to get to the bus station. She nodded saying in a whisper Victoria was a short walk, so Tara and I continued to the Tube.
Over the next few minutes a range of emotions came over me.
(Strangely) my first thought was that 72 hours is an incredible bus journey. The length made me wonder how she would eat the next 3 days with only £8 left after the ticket upgrade. Now I felt bad thinking of the £20 that remained in my wallet – I could have easily given it her.
I then realized this small woman had no place to stay before her bus left the next morning – this made me feel even worse. I’ve never slept on a park bench of bus station… but it must not be miserable. What an asshole I was for not only holding back the remaining £20 I had, but not offering to help her find her a place to sleep.
Then as Tara and I took the long escalator down Green Park station, I began questioning the entire situation. Was this woman a stranded traveler too poor to afford her bus ticket? Or had I been deceived by a cunning beggar who found a way to increase her donations exponentially? I choose to think the former.
The safety net
Now it’s Monday and as I head into work the small woman on her way to Poland is on my mind.
I know London has many shelters for the homeless, but what kind of safety net is there for stranded travelers? The woman mentioned both the police and her embassy wouldn’t help, and I understand they can’t support everyone who asks for a handout.
Surely there must be some system for 1-off unfortunate circumstances? If this support system was in place, is it considered charity? I guess a relatively wealthy person could be stranded as well, and would be just as in need of help.
I’m going do a little investigating into what currently exists. I for one would be willing to be ‘on call’ to help when having the assistance of a friendly local would make all the difference if something goes horribly wrong. Wouldn’t you?
About Andy Shannon
