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facts & arguments

For me, getting turned around isn't a choice. It's an inevitability, Brian Foss writes

Facts & Arguments is a daily personal piece submitted by readers. Have a story to tell? See our guidelines at tgam.ca/essayguide.

I get lost.

There's nothing inherently unusual about that. Everybody gets lost from time to time.

The whole point of mazes, after all, is to perplex visitors so that they can't figure out which direction to go, which corners to turn. And getting lost can lead to serendipitous discoveries.

During my first visit to Venice – a city renowned for its maze of streets and hidden squares – I spent a congenial day becoming thoroughly disoriented. I felt secure that no matter how confused I got (and after a couple of hours I was very confused), I'd be all right since Venice consists of two compact islands. How irredeemably lost could I possibly get in such a restricted space? But by the time the sun was setting, I was still wondering when I might stumble across a landmark or a sign that would help me find my way back to the hotel.

Then I turned a corner in a narrow alleyway, and the Piazza San Marco was suddenly sprawled out in front of me in all its glory. Had I known that I was closing in on the Piazza, or had I actually been looking for it, the moment wouldn't have been powerful enough to have lodged itself at the forefront of my memory for the past 30 years.

Losing your way, however, isn't all about happy surprises. For me, getting lost isn't a choice. It's an inevitability. I have virtually no sense of direction, no internal compass and no autopilot. A recent scientific study suggests that the brain's entorhinal cortex contains networks of cells, each network roughly attuned to a different compass point. But my entorhinal cortex seems to have permanently gone fishing. No one's ever home. Instead, the cells have left a song playing on an endless loop: Chet Baker singing Let's Get Lost. Which is exactly what I almost unfailingly do.

Maps are largely meaningless to me: constantly mutating abstractions that should have "Abandon Hope All Ye Who Enter" written in medieval script across their top edges.

I'm okay when I travel to Calgary and a large chunk of Manhattan, where the streets are laid out in thoughtfully numbered grids. But everywhere else? My expeditions – and they're all expeditions, never anything as a simple trip from Point A to Point B – take at least three times longer than could reasonably be expected.

I always carry a compass, and often a GPS device, although the latter gets impatient with me on those frequent occasions when I'm moving at a walking pace. It's therefore constantly recalculating my route, which only adds to the confusion.

To complicate things even more, I'm enough of a stereotypical male that I won't ask for directions.

"I took the road less travelled," says one of the magnets on my refrigerator. "Now where the hell am I?"

I get lost in unfamiliar territory, but also in well-known places. One of the reasons I've never owned a car is that I'd end up spending a fortune on gas, just trying to find the corner store. I'm lucky to have a partner who understands that when we rent a car, his navigation needs to be excruciatingly detailed, right down to telling me which way to turn when we get to the end of our street (every single time).

I've been employed at my university for eight years, and I still can't figure out how to find most of the buildings, let alone navigate the comprehensive tunnel system that connects them all.

I even had problems when we moved into our apartment. It has a fairly standard design, with rooms off either side of a central hallway. But the bedroom is at the end of the second of the apartment's two corridors: a short diagonal spur that branches off the main hallway. It took me a day before I could quickly and reliably locate the bedroom: this in a single-level, 1,800-square-foot dwelling.

Could this whole business of not knowing where I'm going be an elaborate metaphor for the process of aging? At a certain point, everything seems to be a metaphor for aging. But no. I've been like this for as long as I can remember.

Yet despite the frustrations and the time I inevitably lose being lost, I'm mostly fine with it. Having no sense of direction has shown me how to be patient with myself and not to sweat the small stuff. It's also taught me to be more generous and understanding when it comes to other people's shortcomings.

I make sure the tank is full (because wherever I end up may not have gas stations). Then I roll down the windows and tune the radio to a station that specializes in Top 40 tunes to revel in the music of my youth. And off I go, although probably in the wrong direction. It's a heady kind of freedom. And I know all the pop songs.

Brian Foss lives in Ottawa.