Someone famous once said, “You’re never really lost. Wherever you are, you are somewhere.” While in theory that may be true, when trying to get to Point B from Point A, and somehow you end up nearer to Point W, I’d consider that a little bit lost.
“I think you should have taken the turn back there. It said Road 88.” I said from the navigator seat.
“But we’re looking for Road 86. Where is Road 86 on the map?”
“There is no Road 86 on the map. Maybe it’s a misprint and they meant Road 88 instead? Or maybe Road 86 turns into Road 88 somewhere along the route and it doesn’t show on this map?”
Big sigh from Cheryl. “I’ll keep driving. I’m sure we’ll hit Road 86 soon. It should be just up the road.”
Forty kilometers of silence later, “I think you should have taken that turn way back there. It said Road 88.”
It shouldn’t have happened. We took all of the necessary precautions before starting out – we bought the fresh-off-the-press version of the Michelin map series to be sure in case any new roads had been built, or bridges or tunnels that we’d be right on top of them for our travels. Logging on-line regularly we consulted Mapquest, Hostelworld, and Expedia to get up-to-the-minute, door-to-door directions.
We kept copious notes for each place we were visiting (well, Cheryl did anyway). We used every available resource to ensure we’d be able to make the journey with as little time wasted backtracking as possible. And none of it made one bit of difference.
We got lost everywhere. By my calculations, we spent about 50% of our time on the road in the state of Lost. Some losts required a complete change of plans – such as not finding the campground after driving around aimlessly for 3 hours in the dark, not finding the correct city due to road construction issues, and not being sure exactly what I had scribbled on the napkin from the pub where the nice waitress had given us directions. Was that mustard or Guinness blotted on the street name? These were the bigger losts. Most of our losts, however, were of the one to three hour variety.
Invariably, each time we found ourselves lost for over an hour would be the exact time I either had to frantically go to the bathroom, hadn’t eaten in 2 hours and was experiencing pangs of starvation or was so tired of listening to Cheryl switch radio channels that she could have just pulled over and I’d have happily run alongside until we figured out where we were.
And to put blame where it properly belonged – the getting lost was my fault. Maps confound me. Especially maps that show non-existent roads or those that change names repeatedly depending on which country you’re visiting. It was my job to be the navigator. I was the reader and interpreter of the maps and the one responsible for guiding our course over the tiny lines that designated entire countries.
Cheryl was the driver. One, because she likes to drive and it doesn’t matter to me one way or the other. And two, because she make a lousy passenger. Within fifteen minutes of riding shotgun in a car, Cheryl has fiddled with all of the buttons; set the radio stations three times, and read all of the car’s instruction manuals. She’ll try a puzzle for a few minutes or pick up a book to read, but it’s typically a five minute maximum. Then she’s strumming her fingers on the dashboard, flipping radio channels, and generally making the other driver (me) totally nuts before you’ve gone an hour into the trip.
I can’t read in the car – yucky carsick – but I can sleep. Give me the rolling lull of the open highway and I’m nodding off within minutes. That’s great if the goal is to tune out the radio channel surfer, but not so good when you’re the one who’s supposed to be reading the map! ZZZZZZZZZZ……