Dear Jessica Brennan,
As is widely known, I am hopeless with navigation. I try, but I never know how to get anywhere and have to leave at least thirty minutes earlier than most people to account for how many times I will need to turn around and try again. Even with GPS, I can’t seem to go places without getting lost.
I tell myself this must be some sort of unidentified form of genius.
Last week I had to go to the dentist. Before I tell you this tale, though, I must point out two facts.
- I have lived in the same town my entire life and still get lost. In fact, according to google maps, driving from my childhood home to my current home takes only eleven minutes.
- I must come by this “always lost” thing honestly because Auntie Joyce suffers from precisely the same kind of genius.
When we were growing up, Auntie Joyce and I only went places you could get to from Colborne Street. We knew where Colborne Street was and how to return home. If we ever got lost on Colborne Street in a car (defined as a vessel that makes everything look completely different and confusing), we could get out, reevaluate life and walk home. I wish the universe were still that simple in this new world, almost eleven minutes away.
Now, back to the story of the dentist. I have gone to the same dentist in the same mall for about twenty-five years. I should be able to find it, and under normal circumstances, I think I might have been okay, but circumstances have changed. Evil forces are currently at play—evil forces known commonly as construction. So last week, about five minutes before I left to go to the dentist, dad tried to advise me on how to get there. It went like this.
Dad: When you go to the dentist, go up Grand Ave to Wellingt…
Me (cutting him off): I know how to get to the dentist, for heaven’s sake
Dad: Listen
Me: (eye roll)
Dad: Go up Grand Avenue to Wellington Street and turn left on York Street
Me: I don’t go that way. I go Wellington Street to South Street to Colborne St and then to Dufferin Avenue back to Wellington Street so I can turn left and go into the mall parking.
Dad (looking doubtful)l Colborne Street?
Me: I know how to get there from Colborne Street.
Dad: Don’t go Colborne Street or Dufferin to Wellington because that entrance to the mall is blocked by construction.
Me: (total terror) Well, how am I supposed to get there? Should I take a cab?
Dad: No. Just go to the King Street entrance.
Me: Which one is King St?
Dad (sighing): Surely you know where King Street is.
And so it goes. Dad with his go here and turn there, all the rights and lefts and one-ways and not one-ways because now with the construction they are two-ways. Suddenly I found myself thinking of the rabbit that hopped into the garden on Sunday, a cake Isobel baked for my birthday last year, and what colour countertop would look nice in the kitchen.
Me: I better go, or I will be late.
Dad: (shouting out the door) Don’t forget to turn right when you get off the elevator at the mall, or you won’t find the dentist!
Me: duh
Once in the car, I exhibited perhaps my most common navigational trait—overconfidence mixed with a lack of ability.
What did Dad say? Take Ridout to York? Apparently not. Ridout is closed at the bridge; I better go to Talbot. Why am I at Dufferin already? Surely, King Street comes before Dufferin. I better go to Richmond. Wait, Richmond Street is closed. So around and around I went until finally, in the distance, I spotted the glowing lights of the mall.
I got myself to King Street, and after only driving by the entrance to the parking twice and navigating a challenging access lane while going the wrong way on a one-way street, hurrah! I was one three-point turn and a near miss with a guy picking up trash along the in-ramp, from the bowels of the parking garage.
Me (to myself, yet oddly still aloud): Park somewhere really obvious, Sharon. Think ahead.
I drove to the very end of the lot so that when I came out of the lobby doors, I would see my car if I looked directly to the right. Then, with two minutes to spare, despite turning the wrong way when I got off the elevator, (Why did dad say to turn left?) I was miraculously in the chair, lying upside down wearing smudgy sunglasses and ready for my check-up—a little frazzled and rumpled, but there, nonetheless.
The story isn’t over.
Once proudly cavity-free, I had to find my car and get to my office. The thought of it was exhausting.
Me: Maybe I need to take a personal day.
With the greatest of ease, though, I found the elevator and went down to P11. Why 11, when it is the first level? No wonder I get confused. Sometimes I really miss Auntie Joyce.
Anyway, I put my ticket in the pay machine, and it popped out again. In and out. In and out.
I pressed the help button.
Ring, ring, ring.
Man from speaker (blandly): How may I help you?
Me: Oh, hello. I came to a dentist appointment this morning, and now I’m trying to pay for my parking. I keep putting my ticket in, and it pops out without telling me how much I owe.
Man from speaker: So you left home when? You’ve been here how long?
Me: At one o’clock, it will be about a third of my life.
Man from speaker: It’s free parking if you’ve been in the mall less than an hour. Just take your ticket and go.
I came out of the doors into the parking building and was glad I had parked in a prominent spot. I looked left. What? No car. I walked around the elevator shaft and looked right, then left. No car.
Me: I’m on the wrong level? How can this be? What if my ticket runs out before I find my car, and the gate doesn’t go up, and all these people in the garage decide to leave at the same time, and I can’t get out, and they honk at me? Breathe Sharon; three-part Dirga breath.
I walked around the elevator shaft again and looked right. My heart leapt. My car! Somehow they must have flipped the entire parking garage 180 degrees while I was at the dentist. Well, no matter, I’ve found it now.
The gate opened, and I was on King Street, the one-way but not one-way during construction street.
I won’t bore you with the rest Dear Jessica. It involves a train, turning around, a trip down that hill to Gibbons Park, turning around, more construction and a return to Colborne Street, where all roads worth travelling lead. Ask Auntie Joyce; she will tell you what’s what.
By the time I got to work, I was in such a foul mood that I had to give myself a time-out.
The moral of the story? Next time I ask if I should just take a cab, the answer should be a resounding yes.
Love,
Mum xo
