I’ve mentioned in previous posts my directional dyslexia. If I have a strong inclination to turn left, my destination usually ends up to be on the right.
Strangely enough, there’s something about this condition that is a magnet for tourists. Even if I’m standing with a group of friends, I’m the one singled out for directions. Do these people not read this blog?? “For the love of Pete,” I want to scream, “I’m the wrong person to ask!”
So I’m pleased to say after a couple of recent incidents of misdirection, I was able to redeem myself this morning.
While waiting for the bus, a stocky man in a red golf shirt asked me a question. His puzzled expression told me immediately that he was lost.
Uh oh, I thought, not again. I was desperate to be helpful this time. To either be honest and admit to him that I had no idea where his desired destination was or — miracle of miracles — actually have the answer.
Unfortunately I couldn’t understand a word he said. He spoke in an accent so thick you could spread it on toast and have it for breakfast. Another commuter came over and together we suggested a few possibilities, but the man only got more agitated and spoke faster, which wasn’t helping.
Finally I caught one word, “licence,” and repeated it back to him. Thankfully this prompted him to enunciate the words “licence bureau” very slowly.
“Hallelujah!” I practically screamed to the heavens. Not because I understood him at long last, but because I knew the exact location of the licence bureau — practically across the street, as it happened.
I carefully pointed out to him that it was located in a hidden plaza tucked beside the Pizza Hut across the street, not visible from the bus stop.
I smiled as he walked away, then prayed he wouldn’t get hit by a bus while jaywalking across rush hour traffic to follow my directions.
He didn’t, by the way (I watched to make sure, though)….