It happened to me. I got lost in my hometown. Wandering a grid pattern – hoping I found my destination lost. For the better part of an hour lost. At 2:00am lost.

 

That was after I fell asleep on the bus. Twice. The second time being on the last bus of the night.

 

The taxi driver who I hailed to take me where I wanted to go was not having a much better night than I. He got lost too. Which is how I ended up lost.

 

Exhausted. Bleary eyed. I said “Pull over here. This is fine.” My thinking that if we were going to be lost I didn’t need to pay him for the privilege. He knocked a few dollars off the fare, apologized for not knowing how to get to the address I gave him. So I walked. At first in the wrong direction. I was well and truly lost.

 

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It wasn’t scary. It was peaceful and beautiful. I was, however,  frustrated and doggedly focused on being able to rest my head after pushing myself to my limits since I landed here 2 weeks ago.

I walked strong and felt good. The light was gentle and I saw the plants and trees in a stillness that is rare in the city. I felt gratitude for being lost.

 Making note of landmarks, counting blocks, walking in a systematic grid pattern and the occasional not very useful assistance of a cell phone GPS that seemed to be functioning on the same plane as the taxi driver and me, I finally found my way to the house I am staying. My relief palpable as I walked to the porch.

 

To find a locked door.

 

Now closer to 3:00am, well and truly at the end of my rope. Gratitude long since passed and shiftted into mindful coping. I sat on the porch and wept. And then I went to the back yard and pee’d. (My hosts may be learning of this fact as they read this…) After which I had to choose between waking my sleeping daughter by tapping on the window of the room she was fast asleep in, or sleep on the garden swing. I only slightly regretted choosing Plan A as my sweet girl let out a terrified cry to be awakened by a dark silhouette thumping ‘Shave and a haircut’ (the universal secret knock) on the basement window.  All remorse quickly melted though when at last I tucked into bed next to my daughter. She too was glad I didn’t choose the garden swing option.

 

We stayed in bed the next day, my girl and I. She streaming all the tv shows we don’t have access to at home. Me, going in and out of sleep and enjoying some mama and daughter down time. We both needed it. These past 2 weeks have been busy and intense. The culture shock was far more overwhelming to me than I had anticipated. Which is surprising because I was anticipating it with a fair amount of apprehension.  Adding to it all was that the circumstances of my visit changed drastically the morning we were set off for Madrid on the first night of our journey to Portland, Oregon from Granada. I awoke to the news that a friend here had passed away the day before. I wrote my last post about how I was reeling from the rapidly unfolding nature of my journey back home for the first time in 3 years. Oh how the fates must have been laughing at how foolish I was to think that I knew what was really going on. As usual.

 

You’d think I would know better by now. I thought I did.

 

Which is more likely the reason I got lost in my hometown.

 

Posted in Flowing, Stories, Travel.