I really hate getting lost. It kind of sucks, a lot. It makes me frustrated and annoyed and I just can’t stand it. I used to call my mother while driving (without my earpiece) and then we’d growl back and forth at each other. Where are you? I don’t know, if I knew that, I wouldn’t be calling you. Well I can’t help you get where you need to be until I know where you are. Okay, the corner of Townsend and
. Ok going which way? Uh, I dunno. JOOOOO. MOOOOOOM. Etcetera, etcetera, etcetera. (And yes, that was a blatant King & I reference). Salina
And so then Lola was born. Lola was the second best present my parents ever got me (the first being Josephine, my 2003 white Hyundai Elantra with blue decals on the sides). Lola, my Garmin Nuvi 750 GPS is my closest companion (even when she’s PMSing and tells me to turn where there is not a road or takes me to some trailer park in the middle of Pennsylvania and tells me it’s the Watermark Salo[o]n or even says “Turn right,” when really her map says turn left! [but I suppose that’s a female for you, saying one thing, showing another]). At any rate, Lola and I are great pals.
Whenever I’m going somewhere knew I tell people, all I need is the address, and then they blather on about how if I pass the second Wawa on the right I’ve gone too far, and I have to patiently (or not so patiently) ignore them while twiddling my thumbs or painting my nails so that when they’re finally finished and they say “got that?” I can reply in the affirmative that Lola will not fail us.
And then there’s that adage that you never know where you’re going til you get there. And I kind of like that notion – the sense of adventure you get on a road trip when you’re not really sure what to expect. So over Spring Break, I went on such a road trip. I knew I was going to go southish and through
into Pennsylvania , but that’s about all I knew. So every few hours when I’d be on the phone with my mom and she’d ask me that wonderfully irritating question, I’d reply “I don’t know, somewhere in (enter state here).”or if I wasn’t even sure what state I was in at the time the reply was more along the lines of “I have no idea, but Lola does, so it’s all good.” And so I wasn’t really sure what we were going to see along the way, or the exact route we were going to take. I didn’t care; I had my Lola, my Cracker Barrel map, my co-pilot and an ever-increasing pile of CD’s. Virginia
Somewhere between Gerri’s and Ambers (
and Virginia ) Lola brought us into contact with some very large and obnoxious billboards promising everything from cheap cigars to perfume. I ignored them in favor of the giant peach on the horizon, until I saw the words Porcelain Dolls. Then I was hooked. Exit 50, the sign assured me. I told Chris we were detouring; Lola would find out soon enough. North Carolina
Under protest, Chris was yanked off of the highway, our beaten path as it were, and into an enormous warehouse-style redneck-filled megastore filled with mostly useless crap where he got to watch me debate and hem and haw and call my mother to measure the doll cabinet and give me advice on which doll was unique and cool enough to fit into my collection, for a whole thirty minutes until I decided on a 24-inch goliath named Rosalie. Lola kept whining at me “recalculating”.
When we left one state or another to go to some other part of the state or another, we were faced with lanes upon lanes of backed-up bottle-necked traffic, and so, once again, Lola in hand, we detoured. “Recalculating” she admonished (sometimes she really does sound irritated with me). And away we went, bypassing the traffic jam, running parallel to the highway until we were finally re-routed back on track.
There was a time in my life – pre-Lola – (let’s call that PL, shall we?) when getting lost was a really big deal, when it meant that I was going to be late, or maybe shot in the middle of Woodstock, New York, or run out of gas on some back road in the middle of East Jesus nowhere only to be raped and murdered, chopped into little bits and shoved into the swampy depths of anonymity and missing persons (not necessarily in that order). During this PL time of my life, I was often distracted by being on time, by having to leave 20 minutes early to go anywhere because I knew that inevitably, I would be incapable of following paper directions and too smart to look at a map while driving, and too dumb (or smart depending on the state I was in) to pull off at a lonely gas station simply to ask where the fuck I was going (yes, the f word really was necessary here). I don’t know if I can explain to you how difficult it was for me, this idea of getting lost – not to mention the reality of it when it inevitably happened time and time again – often and without warning. It was a cause of great stress in my life for four years. Every time I embarked on a new adventure, my inner Indiana Jones was squelched with images of my poor broken Josephine lying discarded on the side of some road, gasless, passengerless, lonely, like some old hole-filled sock, or of being lost in the middle of West Bumfuck New York, nothing but trees and deer in sight, on some winding mountainous road with no cell phone reception, driving endlessly for hours and hours.
So now, wherever I go, Lola leads the way, and I follow.