Taking my pants off in public

On a bus tour through Scotland last weekend, I decided I needed to do something out of the ordinary to make myself stand out from the other 35 people on the trip. I wanted to make friends, and I needed a unique conversation starter. So I agreed to take my pants off in front of them.

The people on my tour were all strangers to me on Friday morning, when we set out from Edinburgh toward Loch Ness. There were four vacant seats on the bus, and one was next to me. Tony, our hilariously entertaining guide, helped break the ice by telling us to chat with the people around us for a few minutes. I got to know a little bit about the Australian woman behind me and the girl next to her, but it was your typical traveler conversation: “Where are you from? Where have you been? Where are you going next? How long are you traveling for?” Not necessarily in that order. And when there’s time: “What did you do back home, and what will you do when you get back?”

It’s easy to talk about all those things with fellow travelers, but getting beyond that can be tough. So that’s where the conversation often ends unless you find more common ground.

As we introduced ourselves, the bus sped along, making a few stops for us to see the William Wallace monument, some ancient battlefields, castles and other scenic, historical places on the Scottish countryside. I made small talk with some of the people around me, but nothing too meaningful. 

Freedom! (William Wallace monument.)

Eilean Donan Castle

The Isle of Skye

Our final stop of the day was at a demonstration of Scottish clansman culture. Tony told us earlier that one lucky guy and one lucky girl would get to dress up in traditional Scottish attire at the demonstration if we volunteered. As soon as he said that, I was determined to be the one to raise my hand.

The demonstration was presented by Ken, a Scottish historian with no apparent dental plan. Partway through, Ken asked for a “brave gentleman” to join him in the center of the room. I looked around, and no one else appeared to consider raising their hand. “Brave?” I thought. Tony never mentioned anything about bravery for this part.

“OK, you don’t have to be brave,” Ken said. “You can be a wimp.”

Still no one else volunteered. I wimpily raised my hand. Ken brought me up to the center of the room, where we were surrounded on 3 sides by 35 strangers. He asked my name and introduced me to everyone. He began to fold a kilt on the floor and talk about the traditional way of wearing it – commando style, balls tickled by the breeze. My breathing became very shallow. I may have swallowed hard enough for Nessie to hear the gulp way down in the loch’s depths. Then – and I hope this is the only time I ever have to write a sentence like this – Ken told me to drop my pants. The audience laughed a nervous laugh that translated to: “I’m sure glad I wasn’t stupid enough to volunteer for this.”

I stared at Ken wide-eyed and asked nervously, “What? Are you joking?”

Now, something the reader should know about me is that I’m usually considered to be the quiet guy, unless I’m with close friends. I like to converse with people, mostly to see what I can learn from them. So I don’t have a problem introducing myself or being outgoing in that way. But grand attention-getting acts are not my thing. Neither is public indecency. I knew dressing up in a kilt would set me apart from the rest of the group and give me an ‘in’ to any conversation with anyone, and I thought it was something within my range of comfort. But doing it sans trousers in front of 3 dozen strangers was a wee bit outside that range.

“Go ahead. You’ve got underwear on, haven’t you?” Ken went on.

“Yeah, but … You’ve gotta be kidding. Come on. Can I undress behind the curtain? And can you dress me in the kilt back there?”

“Oh, you’ve got underwear on. What’s the problem? We haven’t got all day. You can take your pants off behind the curtain, but you’ve gotta come back here so I can show them how to put on the kilt.”

I slunk behind the curtain, then peeked back into the room. “Anybody else wanna volunteer?” I pleaded pitifully.

“Oh, come on,” Ken said. “Look, ladies, close your eyes. I’ll tell you when to open them.”

I sighed and tucked behind the curtain again. I knew if I backed out I’d never stop grumbling and kicking myself. And at least I’d have a good conversation starter later at the hostel. And everybody on the tour would be sure to remember me. So I slipped off my Pumas and unbuckled my belt. And then, off came the jeans.

I know it sounds wussy, but I peeked out from behind the curtain to make sure the women still had their eyes closed. They did. I scurried into the room and lay down on the kilt and Ken began to wrap it around me.

“OK, you can open your eyes now,” he said before he’d covered my Hanes.

“Not yet!” I exclaimed. The audience let out a laugh that I like to think meant: “Brian’s quite the trooper for going through with this. I’d like to get some alone time with him (the women). And I wish I was as brave as he is (the men).” 

Ken describing Scottish fashion

Comfy kilt

My heart rate began to return to normal as Ken dressed me and people started to take photos and admire the kilt. I confirmed that I had the group’s respect when I got some positive chuckles by doing a catwalk with the kilt and posing for various photos. Ken also brought Jen, a girl from Kirkland, up to the front to dress her in traditional women’s attire. She didn’t have to expose herself.

At the end, Ken put me back in the center of the stage and started talking about how easy it is to disrobe from the kilt. My breath shortened and my heart quickened once again. I snatched the Scottish beanie off my head. As Ken pulled my belt, my hand snapped down to hide my crotch with the hat and I quickly shuffled backward behind the curtain, the applause and laughter raining down from all sides.

Then I took off my shirt and did a victory lap around the room wearing nothing but my skivvies.

OK, that last sentence isn’t true. I dressed quickly behind the curtain and walked back to my seat surrounded by the audience’s clapping.

Later at the hostel, and over the next two days, starting conversations with others in the group was no trouble. Everyone knew my name and joked with me about the kilt demonstration. The problem was making actual friends. I was interested in getting to know everyone, so I used the kilt stunt as my window to talk to as many people as possible throughout the weekend. It ended with me feeling like I’d become friends with one girl, Nikki, who I’d had some extended conversations with, but everyone else was still a mere acquaintance.

When we got back to Edinburgh, I left in a rush without saying proper goodbyes to everyone else. I felt empty and alone as I sat writing about the weekend. It was just like the feeling I used to get as a kid at the end of a long weekend spent with my cousin or one of my best friends. I’d gotten used to my friends being constantly with me, and when they left there was a void and all I wanted to do was mope and go to bed. Maybe if the trip had been longer I’d have made a few more meaningful connections.

I don’t regret taking my pants off in front of everyone. I only wish I’d spent more time getting to know a few people in-depth and curtailed some of the pointless conversations with others who didn’t pique my interest.

When Tony asked us to write down some of our memories from the weekend in a notebook, I scribbled: “This tour taught me something valuable: If you want to break the ice in a large group, just take your pants off.”

I should have added: “Just be careful how you use the opportunities that act gives you.”