You Can’t Get There From Here
Getting hopelessly lost was one of my tragic memories driving alone late at night searching for a Holiday Inn.
It's never fun when you're lost. It might be fun later, but not when it's the now. If you don’t where you're going, you should always know where you are. I thought I did, but didn’t.
This is my story about the road to disaster.
Much of my official travel to outlying sites in the Region was by auto, either personal or rental. Just about all of them posed little difficulty in getting to my destination on time, except in the Washington, D. C. metropolitan area that often required navigating across countless beltways, loops, and expressways.
Anytime I saw signs indicating, I-295, I-395, and I-495 jutting away from I-95 to a multitude of locations, I’d hold my breath and pray that I’d take the right exit.
Sometime in the mid-1980’s (pre-GPS, Global Positioning Satellite technology or MapQuest) I drove to Washington, D.C. for a meeting in the afternoon and departed afterward around 5 pm to visit a close friend and his family living in Burke, Virginia.
Mohammed (Mo) Khan and family recently returned from a two-year assignment in Saudi Arabia and moved into a lavish new home in the suburbs. We enjoyed the reunion tremendously, with dinner and drinks afterward.
Around 10 pm I asked Mo for directions to my lodging in Alexandria, VA. Mo drew a cursory map to the Holiday Inn—his “short-cut” and assured me that I couldn’t miss it. (Anytime, someone gives you complicated driving directions, ending with “You can’t miss it,” you generally do. Trust me).
Since I had already checked in at the Inn upon my arrival in Alexandria earlier in the day (and left for the DOL national office), I planned on viewing an HBO special at 11:00 pm when I returned from Mo’s place, thinking that I’d have plenty of time to get my self esconced in front of the television set with a beer in hand. (Mo said his proposed route shouldn’t take more than 30 to 35 minutes).
Following Mo’s initial directions, my thoughts drifted to the point where I may have missed an exit. Twenty minutes later I sensed that uncanny feeling that I might be lost, but forged ahead anyway, hoping that I was mistaken. After all, I seemed to be going in the right direction.
Forty minutes later and encountering road signs that appeared foreign to Southern Virginia, my inner self said, “you’re lost, Pal. Now what?” Shit. I stopped the car, re-read the directions, attempting to figure out where I had missed my turn. The map in the rental car wasn’t much help—I couldn’t match the highways on Mo’s directions with the Avis’ abbreviated traveler’s map.
Had I been fooled into worshipping a slip of paper? It was time to partake in a pastime that millions of men participate everyday, and have been doing so since the dawn of time – urinating outside as I gazed at the stars, contemplating my next move.
Unfortunately, the less traveled arteries offered little opportunity to get off them in search of directions at some rest stop or business establishment. Besides, it was getting late and I doubted I’d find anything open anyway.
I began back tracking in anticipation of finding one of the roads that Mo listed. That failed. At that point, I turned off the radio to avoid any further distractions.
There is nothing like getting utterly lost to bring out previously unnoticed character flaws. I began cursing mildly at first, increasing the level and volume of obscenities as my misadventure progressed. And they became blasphemous, too.
Every exit I took guided me to another interchange (some unmarked) and distant from my hotel. It seemed that I was trapped in a circular route that led me back to where I started. I felt lost deep in the interstate jungle of Virginia. I found myself in the middle of nowhere.
After midnight, I was beginning to question my sanity and judgment. I kept driving; perhaps a little luck would help. To add insult to injury, the gas gauge crept towards empty. Another hour passed, my throat hoarse from screaming at the unfairness of it all, wondering if I died and gone to a special type of hell for wayward travelers.
By 2 am, I’d had just about all I could take of myself.
As I proceeded toward another interchange that I had traveled several times earlier that evening, I noticed a small paved and unmarked road leading off the highway. I drove along its windy path that led me to a seedy, off-beaten motel; it could have been the Bates Motel for all I cared.
At the entrance, a taxicab idly sat with its parking lights on and its driver inside, scratching notes on a clipboard. As I explained my plight to the taxicab driver, he sensed my extreme state of anxiety and volunteered to drive to the Holiday Inn in Alexandria, where I’d follow him, a mere ten mile trip.
Although he refused my offer to pay him, I extended my heartfelt appreciation, probably with tears in my eyes.
As I crawled into bed around 2:30 am, I felt physically and emotionally drained, but relieved. Yes, it could’ve been worse: the car breaking down, the car running out of gas, or me colliding with a tree or road barrier as I stared at the poor directions from Mo .
Someone wise once said that travel makes a wise man better, and a fool worse. You can be the judge of the voyage that I’ll never forget.
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