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Strangers. The word tends to have an ominous cloud hanging over it. But in the beginning, everyone is a stranger, an unknown quantity — even the people who become our friends.

As a journalist, chatting to random people comes with the job. It’s a prerequisite, in fact.

The other day, I struck up a conversation with two middle-aged men watching a salsa class in San Francisco. They were from Guatemala. After conversing about dancing and being immigrants, the portlier of the pair said, “You’re very open. Most women here don’t normally speak to strange men.” What a pity, I thought, because those women missed out on meeting these two who, with twinkles in their eyes, taught me a little about their country.

I like strangers. They are a novelty with their different points of view and stories.

But like the Guatemalan said, trust in this day and age is hard to come by. After all, if colleagues can backstab you, friends betray you and spouses more likely than not cheat on you, then who’s to say the strangers you befriend aren’t liable to harm you?

Traveling in unfamiliar territory, everyone I meet is a stranger — a possible threat or friend. So as a solo traveler, I try to be more cautious. But on any journey, nothing quite goes as intended. In my experience, strangers have enhanced my travels and, more often than not, come to my rescue.

As a foolish youth driving solo across England and Ireland, I managed to get my car wedged in a ditch. There, surrounded by dense fog, past midnight, in the countryside somewhere between Dublin and Galway, I sat in the dark waiting for help. Eventually, I flagged down two men on their way home from the pub. Unfortunately, due to the substantial amount of Guinness in their system, their car ended up in the same ditch as mine. It was only after the pub closed and the rest of the inebriated villagers came our way that we were saved.

This time my story began when a 5,000-pound steel cable snapped off the San Francisco Bay Bridge, causing it to close for a few days. Due to the bridge closure, Amtrak canceled its buses, which I needed to connect to a southbound train, leaving me stranded in the city. Amtrak did leave a note on the bus stop sign. Catch the train in San Jose, it read. Nothing else.

I went to the local subway station to find a train bound for San Jose. A kind attendant informed me that the southbound Amtrak would leave the next morning. “Do you have a place to sleep tonight?” he said. At the train station, naturally. Unfortunately, the stations close at night, was his reply.

Lack of lodgings was the least of my worries. My mission was to catch my train to San Diego. The route I had to take was simple: a Bay Area Rapid Transit train from San Francisco to Millbrae followed by a Caltrain to San Jose where I was to wait for an Amtrak bus to Santa Barbara, and finally a train to San Diego.

Zipping down to Millbrae, I was slightly apprehensive. Was San Jose the right place to catch up with my wayward Amtrak transportation? Midnight was closing in fast. I turned to the elderly couple behind me and asked if they knew where I could catch the Amtrak train to San Diego. Their names were Bill and Roseanne, and they were on their way home from watching the musical “Wicked” in San Francisco. There were no trains till tomorrow. Again came the question: “Do you have a place to sleep tonight?” “No,” I replied.

Before alighting in Millbrae, Bill turned and said, “You can sleep on our couch tonight.” And with those words, the kind pair saved me from spending the night outside of the San Jose station.

So I hopped into their car and we drove to their home in Belmont. It was a quaint old house with a porch, the random passing deer or raccoon in their yard, a kitchen with flowery wallpaper and a brown-and-white Papillon dog called Mickey.

When Bill discovered my budding love for riding long-distance trains, he took me to his basement. On a wall a sticker read: “My wife says if I buy one more train she’ll leave me. Gee, I’ll miss her.” Bill is a railway aficionado.

He had spent the last 41 years turning the basement into a miniature country of undulating mountain peaks, canyons, clouds and cities connected by railways tracks and trains of all shapes and colors. We talked of trains till well past the witching hour.

It wasn’t until I was snugly settled on their couch that a thought crossed my mind — what if they were a couple of elderly serial killers? Laughable misgivings that dawned too late and completely unwarranted for the kind couple shepherded me onto a train headed for San Jose the next morning.

A friend of mine once asked what it feels like to befriend strangers. I had answered: happy. Looking back, I’ve changed my mind. My answer now? Grateful.

Titania Veda writes a weekly travel column. She is a former features reporter at the Jakarta Globe.