My dad used to say, “I’m not lost. I’m taking the scenic route.”
Usually, he was lost. Well, this apple didn’t fall far from that tree, and it’s been a life-long inconvenience. My problem is with directions. I’m not good with north, south, east, or west, and I rely heavily on maps.
But as someone who has followed a vertical crease north for 140 miles, a map isn’t always the best tool.
I do know right from left, but sometimes mix them up. So what happens is that I, the family navigator, nudge the driver, point left, and say, “turn right.”
Followed immediately by, “Sorry, I meant my other right,” and I point again, but in the right direction, which would be left.
This was something my “driver” considered cute when we were dating, but it doesn’t wear well after 50 years.
Directional deficiency
Before GPS and driving apps, my directional deficit often made traveling a white-knuckle adventure, even on our little Island. This disability proved especially challenging when I sold real estate. While showing homes for sale, I’d drive clients past a particular landmark several times.
“And this is what Dinah Rock Road looks like when coming from yet a third direction,” I’d say, explaining that we were taking the “scenic” route. You can only pull that two or three times before the jig is up.
It doesn’t instill confidence to say, “Sorry! I know what I’m doing. I just don’t know where I’m going.”
What happens in Vegas
I’ve had memorable experiences driving, navigating, and even finding my way back to the car.
I lost the car in Las Vegas once after we parked in a massive casino garage. It was my job to remember the 7th level, near the elevator. And I did.
After an hour listening to an off-key Elvis impersonator in a bad toupée, we went to the 7th level of the garage. But the car wasn’t by the elevator. I got panicky until I realized there were four elevators. Whew!
It wasn’t by any of those elevators, either. Who would steal a beat-up PT Cruiser with a half-peeled beach sticker and a faded magnetic Island map?
As it turned out, no one.
There were multiple parking garages spread across a half-mile. Eventually, we found the car, but that was six hours we’ll never get back. Seven if you count the bad Elvis.
Tennessee Tales
Another memorable experience happened in Nashville. We got on the beltway that circles Music City and found a motel close to an exit, under the yellow glow of a 24-hour Waffle House. How perfect was that!
As soon as we checked in, we headed to downtown Nashville, the touristy part that’s all neon, honky-tonk, and music. We listened to young country artists and a couple of Dolly Parton wannabes.
We ended the evening with a drink at the famous Wild Horse Saloon, watching women in short skirts with fringe and cowboy boots and men in 10-gallon hats two-step and Boot Scoot Boogie right past us.
When we left, we were able to find our car. But once on the beltway, we couldn’t remember the exit for our motel. The key had our room number, that’s it — nothing else.
I did remember the Waffle House, though, and in only a few miles, we spotted those big yellow letters. Sure enough, there it was, shining down on a motel. But it wasn’t ours.
We tend to stay away from places that advertise “rooms by the hour.” So we made the rounds, literally.
As we drove from exit to exit, we realized that most of the hundred-plus Waffle Houses in Tennessee were on that damn beltway. And we stopped at one after the other until we finally found ours.
By then, we’d spent more time circling the outskirts of Nashville than actually in the heart of it.
But we did have a great 3 AM Waffle House breakfast. And a story to tell.
Those kinds of adventures – and misadventures – don’t happen as much now that technology gets us where we’re going, finds our cars, and brings us home again.
And that’s a good thing, I guess, never winding up on the “scenic” route. Or maybe not.
