Friday March 13, 2009 
Friday March 13, 2009 I got lost in Guildford. To know how embarrassing this is, you need to have been to Guildford. Which is tiny. A town center (excuse me, town centre*), a train station, and a handful of streets.
I blame the incident on my coffee addiction and my failure to pass this most admirable of all human weaknesses down to my daughter.
Here's the story. I stayed with Carolyn and Juan Carlos in their lovely house in storybook-looking Guildford. Upon arising every morning, I stumbled downstairs in search of my morning caffeine fix. Only to find a complicated, never-used cappuccino machine that I was unable to figure out.
Not a big deal. There are a number of excellent coffee shops in Guildford, just down the road. Put on my sneakers, grab a coat and off I went, every morning. A brisk 20 minutes later, I'd arrive in front of the shop of my choice, order my large brew, and turn around to walk back to the house.
I did this for six days in a row without incident. The seventh day? Well, the Lord rested and so apparently did my brain. I stopped thinking about the route and just went on autopilot, which was clearly a big mistake. Picture this: I'm walking back from town, in fine stride, happily sipping hot coffee as I went. Daydreaming, as usual, paying no attention. Until I glanced to my right and noticed I was walking on a small bridge over train tracks.
Train tracks? Train tracks? I didn't remember any stinkin' train tracks. Ruh roh. (If you're a Brit, this is an Americanism that is worth lowering your standards to learn, as it comes from that great classic of literature, Scooby Doo. However, there is no need to add “stinkin'” to your vocabulary, although it will endear you to Los Angeles natives if you do. After all, I learned what spotted dick pudding is, and let's be honest – what's scarier?)
But back to my tale. I feel those little beads of perspiration popping up on my forehead. And I try to convince myself that maybe I just never noticed the train tracks before. Yeah, that's it. So I keep going. But it's no good. I pass building after building that I could swear I've never seen before. I don't have a map, I don't have my mobile. With no better options in sight I retrace my steps. And now I'm really puzzled. Because for the life of me I can't see what I did wrong. Yep, there's the print shop. There's the Thai restaurant. There's the street crossing where I've almost been run over seven days in a row.
I resort to magical thinking. Like if I do the exact same thing I just did, surely this time it will work. Shockingly? It didn't. I was still crossing that damn bridge with the train tracks. I turn around. Again. But this time I'm desperate enough to stop strangers and ask them. Of course, my asking for directions is somewhat hampered by the fact that while I know the little residential street my daughter and son-in-law live on, I don't remember the main road next to them. But I sort of think it starts with “elm.” And that there's an over-25 nightclub about six blocks from their house. Surely those facts are enough to get me going.
Uh, no. I'm met with blank look after blank look. Thinking that perhaps it's my bad English, I stop at the local high school, accost this nice-looking man in the parking lot, and throw myself on my mercy. This time I started off by explaining, “I'm just a stupid American...” And it worked! He chortled with delight, and said with that British dry wit we so envy, “No, no, I'm sure there's no such thing...” and then proceeded to give me directions. He even figured out that the street that I thought started with “elm” was actually Epsom. Bless his heart.
So I'm flying home back to the U.S., to my own house, my own coffee maker that I can use, and a car that I can drive on the right side of the road (and by that, I mean the correct side!). But watch out, Great Britain, because I'm coming back!
PS: I still don't know what I did wrong but I'm sure I'll have the opportunity to repeat my mistake later this spring.
*Note: Having failed to learn Spanish, I'm doing my best to learn real English, because I was told by a British Sun colleague that my American language is NOT the same language as his. We all remember how well (not) my Spanish lessons went, so I'm not holding out much hope here.
Posted by terrymckenzie ( Mar 13 2009, 08:00:00 AM PDT ) Permalink Comments [4]
