Something must be seriously wrong with my city game-face. Over the years living in Chicago, I’ve developed that flat, don’t-talk-to-me-bub face that is meant to deflect the public transit drunks and lunatics, the earnest, ever-hopeful sidewalk petition wielders, and pretty much anyone else. I developed the look after spending my twenties being talked to by strangers all the time around the city.

But within the last 24 hours, I have had three separate unsolicited interactions with strangers. At a Five Guys in the Raleigh Durham airport (Yes, my flight plan involved a seven-hour stop in R-D. I was using frequent flyer miles, and to get to England as fast as possible on Labor Day weekend required this circuitous route, even when I made my reservations ten months ago) a fast food worker gave me a disarming compliment: “I like your shirt.” And this teenager working definitely wasn’t flirting—it was honest observation. I think she just liked my shirt. (It is a pretty nice shirt.)

Then when I finally got to Heathrow, I didn’t even make it to the baggage claim without being stopped to do a brief survey on visitors to the United Kingdom. Though I had just endured the torture that is the slow-motion conga line of the Heathrow Customs traffic jam, I submitted. Grabbed my luggage and headed to the Tube. “I’d be lost without it” used to be their marketing line, but I very nearly got lost with it. All I needed was to get from Heathrow to Paddington Station to catch a train. Paddington is served by four different Tube lines, so working out a connection should have been pretty easy, Alas, as I discovered after trying a transfer, two of those four lines are closed this weekend for track maintenance. Apparently this is pretty common in London on weekends. Lines just don’t run, or cease several or many stops before their usual endpoints.

After a little battle between the amazing color-coded and rightfully famous Tube map and my color-blindness, I worked out a route, and eventually made my way to Paddington, still with several hours to kill before my train to Moreton-in-Marsh, the nearest train station to Chipping Campden (Gotta love these place names. Get used to it; the names all along my walk are spectacular.).

And what should happen but someone approached me asking if I could fill out a lengthy survey about my upcoming rail experience. It comes with a prepaid envelope to mail it in.

My theory is that I have been so excited about this trip that I’ve let my guard down and reverted to some sort of open expression that says “I’m the guy who’ll fill out your survey.”

Oh, and the rail experience? Pleasant and uneventful. Got to Moreton-in-Marsh, where a friendly taxi driver, whom I had called to arrange for during the wait at Paddington, decided that I clearly needed to chat for the entire journey. By this point, I had surrendered to my fate, and I gamely talked with him about my walking plan, the Cotswold tourists, the economy, and his own opinions on how grand the path is (though I suspect from the way he talked about it that he’s only seen a few select points on the path from the window of his car as he picks up walkers who’ve bit off more walk than they can chew. That ain’t me, though. I’m ready to go.