Fourth and Broadway

A bunch of newly-graduated teacher folk gather at a restaurant last evening before some of them head out of the area for greener pastures. Though I would have to be late to join, Priya encourages me to come. Although she does not know where there ultimate destination is exactly, she tells me to drive on the 10W toward Santa Monica until I am closer to receive further instruction. I admit to being apprehensive about that plan, considering that I am notoriously poor with directions, but Priya vows that she will help me get there.

My extreme lack of a sense of direction is no exaggeration as anyone who has ridden with me or expected me to play navigator as a passenger can testify. Routinely, I end up making more U-Turns than a "W." (You know, a "double-U," in essence, twice the number of U-ies, right? Yeah, yeah, I know. "Kevin, forget about a sense of direction, you call that a sense of humor?" Shut it!) When I was younger, my parents used to joke that when I got my license, they were going to need to tie a string from the car to my house so I could eventually find my way back home. If it had been remotely practical, I probably would have taken them up on that. Once I was more than two streets away from my house, I might as well have been completely lost. I used to attribute this condition to the fact that I always had my nose in a book while riding in the car so I never became familiar with the roads. Later, however, when I was driving, and therefore not reading at the same time, I still couldn't get a grasp on the lay of the land just two minutes from my house.

At any rate, I get in my car and head toward Santa Monica. I bring my Polyphonic Spree CD with me (the band's concertwas yet again amazing and life-altering, by the way) to keep me chipper as I drive without the aid of MapQuest. The music works: I cheerfully sing along as I am proud of how much of the route I remember. Maybe I am figuring out LA! Maybe I can handle city navigation!

Per instructions, I call Priya for my exit. She refers me to Lauren, who is more versed in the area. After some initial confusion, it is determined that my exit is Fourth Street, which I've already passed a couple miles back. No problem, I say, exiting and re-entering the freeway to backtrack still keeping my cool. I can do this.

I exit at Fourth and take a right, as told. Several miles later, I hit a dead end. Maybe it was a left then? I call Priya for the restaurant's precise address. "1445," she says. In addition to not remembering directions, I also can't remember four digit numbers apparently. A minute later I must call back. "That address again?" "Here's how we'll remember it," Priya offers. "Think about dating. Someone who is 14? That's too young! But wait, someone who is 45 is too old!" I'm not sure how that helps, wondering why the number couldn't just as easily be 1260 with that logic, but it seems to work. I putter about, having to find my way on my own after two police detours, and finally locate the corner I'm looking for: Fourth and Broadway.

I feel really dumb, because I'm at the precise location, and still can't spot the restaurant. Surely, I can't be that directionally challenged. I place another phone call. Lauren offers to exit the restaurant and meet me outside. Though we both claim to be standing on the corner of Fourth and Broadway, we do not see each other. "Do you see the bus?" "Yes, I see the bus." "I'm standing right next to it." "But I don't see you!" "I'm waving." "I'm waving, too - where are you?" We spend nearly ten minutes puzzled looking for one another, both adamantly claiming to be in the same location. In describing landmarks we see, there are enough similarities and discrepancies to thoroughly confuse us. Finally, Lauren asks a passerby whether there is another a Broadway and Fourth intersection elsewhere. "In LA," the person says. "You aren't in LA?" Lauren asks, laughing. "No, I'm in Santa Monica! I think..." "Maybe you should ask someone what city you're in."

As I contemplate how absurd it is that it has come to me actually having to ask what city I am in, before I embarrass myself by speaking to someone, I see a sign referring to this area as "Historic Los Angeles." I really am in the wrong city. As much as I've been lost in my life, I don't think I've ever been in a position where I could swear I was in the right location and end up being in an entirely different city.

I need a map.