Many years ago, I packed all of my belongings into storage and set out on a solo three-month motorcycle trip through the American West, visiting all of the major national parks. After a couple of weeks, I noticed that I really wasn’t meeting people and was getting rather desperate for conversation.



I thought I was pretty clean-cut, for a biker: short hair, minimum stubble, no visible tattoos or bones through my nose. I was even wearing pants. But time and time again, people would avoid sitting near me or avoid making eye-contact — even retirees and they’ll talk to anyone.

Time and time again, people would avoid sitting near me or avoid making eye-contact.

On one occasion, a mother actually pulled her child to the other side of the street to avoid crossing my path. Smiling or trying to start conversations didn’t seem to help. In desperation, I even tried showering — to no avail. I was beginning to get really depressed.

If Gilligan and the Crocodile Hunter had a love child, this is the hat he would wear.

About this time, I realized that I didn’t have a good sun hat and stopped at an over-priced camping shop in Arizona. The only one I could find that was packable was a floppy, goofy-looking fishing hat — if Gilligan and the Crocodile Hunter had a love child, this is the hat he would wear. My bald spot was already glowing cherry-red, so I swallowed my pride and bought it.

Imagine my surprise when a crowd of retirees surrounded me at my next stop, asking about the bike and where I was from. I spent an hour standing in the sun and chatting happily, learning far more than I ever wanted to know about Winnebagos, diesel generators, and retirement savings plans. My next several stops turned out the same way — everyone I saw had owned a bike at one time or wished they could make a trip like mine. A couple of people asked if they could take photos of their child sitting on the bike. I was suddenly the most popular guy around. What had changed?

A black motorcycle jacket paired with a floppy fishing hat looked so utterly ridiculous that no one could possibly think I was dangerous.

After awhile, I figured it out: it was the hat. A black motorcycle jacket paired with a floppy fishing hat looked so utterly ridiculous that no one could possibly think I was dangerous. It made me approachable. I tested my theory and it worked every time. If I wanted solitude, I would leave the hat in my bag. Feeling social? Out came the Friendly Hat. It was like magic.

Have you had a similar experience? What was your version of the Friendly Hat?

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