The Kindness of Strangers: Prince Edward Island

In a world that feels uncertain, some places still run on trust.

What happens when a stranger leaves his belongings unguarded on a restaurant table?

The evening air is crisp and salty as I sit on the outdoor deck of a small restaurant in Prince Edward Island on Canada’s east coast. The sky blushes pink and gold as the sun sinks lower, and the water shimmers, mirroring the quiet magic of the moment. My plate is warm in front of me, my glass of wine perfectly chilled. It’s the perfect evening.

Then a couple with a baby sits down at the table next to me. They wear the half-anxious, half-exhilarated expression of parents who have finally escaped the confines of their home for one of their first outings with their infant. They quickly order drinks and an appetizer, as though eager to savor this brief taste of normalcy.

At first I barely notice them, too absorbed in the sunset as the first pink and lavender streaks appear across the sky. But at some point, I glance over to see the mother lift the baby from the carrier and discreetly perform the universal sniff test of the diaper area. 

“She needs changing,” she says to her partner, scooping up the baby and slinging the diaper bag over her shoulder. She leaves her half-full glass of wine on the table as she heads inside. 

The man nods and picks up his phone. He scrolls but keeps glancing at the door where she disappeared. After a few minutes, he too stands up and goes inside. 

It’s not until he’s gone that I notice something strange.

Their table is full of valuables. His wallet. His keys. Her phone. Their drinks.

I blink. It’s all just… sitting there.

Anywhere else I’d been, this would be an invitation for trouble. At best, a concerned waiter might rush over and scoop up the items before someone opportunistic could. At worst, a passerby would pocket the wallet and phone before anyone noticed.

But here? Nothing.

The outdoor deck is full. People pass by, some even glancing at the items left unattended, but no one makes a move to take them. No waitress hurries over in alarm. No neighboring diner leans in to flag down a server. I decide to speak up if someone tries to take anything, but for now I’m curious to see what happens. The minutes tick by. But the items simply remain untouched.

Then I understand.

They are protected—by the people here, by the community, by a shared trust so deeply ingrained that no one even considers otherwise. Prince Edward Island is the kind of place where neighbors know each other, where people look out for one another, where the default assumption is that people are good. Of course the man's belongings are perfectly safe.

I sit there, my meal momentarily forgotten, absorbing what I’ve just witnessed. The kind of trust that permeates this island, this town, this restaurant—it’s the kind of trust that reinforces something I’ve come to truly believe as I travel the world: the people are inherently good. 

A warmth blossoms inside me that has nothing to do with the wine or the heat of the day. 

A few minutes later, the couple returns, the baby now content in her carrier. The mother reaches for her wine. The father tickles the baby. They never glance at their belongings, never question that everything is just as they left it.

I take a last sip of wine, watching the last streaks of color fade from the sky. It’s a small thing, really, but it lingers—the quiet reassurance that places like this still exist. And for now, I’m lucky enough to be in one.