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Stepping off the tour bus, we disembark into a changed Edinburgh. When our girls' group began exploring the city that morning, people overflowed the surrounding landscape, covering streets and parks. Visitors from around the world jostled shoulders as they scrambled for buses or pulled up maps on their phones and set off on foot. Now, the area appears deserted as weary wanderers move toward cheerful pubs and cafes, intent on refreshment. Even the piper on the corner has vanished, taking the signature sound of Scotland with him. I glance at my traveling companions, my mother, sisters and niece, and shrug. We missed our hop off spot. The bus parked for the night. It's up to us to find a way to our lodging. We have options. The bus tours begin and end on Waverley Bridge, near the train station tucked into the heart of Edinburgh. The three span iron bridge we stand on literally connects medieval Old Town with 18th century New Town. Cabs regularly swing through this area, assured of a steady stream of arrivals. "Are you ladies lost?" A guide approaches us, a smile on his tired face. An unruly thatch of gray hair caps his head, and in spite of the long day, his good humor remains intact. Laugh lines frame bright blue eyes that disappear when he chuckles. His rumpled shirt stretches over a rounded belly. GEORGE is etched across his name tag. George sees damsels in distress. He offers assistance. We like him immediately. He listens intently as we explain our dilemma. We aren't lost, only temporarily displaced. Perhaps George can flag down a cab for us. He concocts a better idea. "Where are you staying?" he inquires in his soft Scottish brogue. I supply the name and address of our serviced apartment near Grassmarket, south of Edinburgh Castle. George's reaction surprises us. He rocks back on his heels, his smile widening. Laughter bubbles up and George waves other guides over. As he shares our story, they raise eyebrows and chuckle too. The band of guides shares some private joke and we aren't in on it. Wiping his eyes, George steers us toward a bus, empty except for the seated driver. "My friend, please take these ladies back to their apartment," George instructs. "They've had a long day in our fine city." The driver nods. George gives him the address. His mouth quirking into a lopsided smile, the driver looks amused as we settle gratefully into seats. "Okay, what's so funny about where we're staying?" I ask. George hops nimbly into the bus. With an infectious grin, he prances toward the metal pole nearest us. Placed there to steady standing travelers, George has other intentions. Humming, the Scotsman grabs the pole and dances, surprisingly agile. He twirls around and throws back his head, amid cheers from guides gathered near the bus door. Hooking one leg around the pole, George looks at us, expectantly. Our dancer plays a spontaneous game of charades. My family members exchange glances as understanding comes. He's pole dancing, as a clue! I'm incredulous. "Are we staying in Edinburgh's red light district?" Applause from the guides confirms my guess. The driver waves George off his bus. He exits with a wink and an admonition to behave ourselves. As the bus pulls away, we look back at George and wave. He performs another little twirl on the sidewalk and bows. Walking up to our apartment door, we stop and really look at our surroundings. We arrived late the night before, eyes captivated by our first sight of Edinburgh Castle perched high on its rock. And we left eager for adventure that morning. Now, turning slowly in a circle, we realize our five star lodging is located in the middle of strip clubs, lap dance parlors and adult shows. No wonder George and the other guides laughed. We are amused too. One of my sisters recently returned with me to Edinburgh. We stayed in a different serviced apartment, in New Town. However, every time our bus passed Grassmarket, we peered up the hill toward our previous lodging. And we smiled, remembering George, our rescuer, our pole dancer.