Lost Soul in Brooklyn

Not to frighten anyone away, but might it ever have occurred to you Noodle fans that my life isn't always as boring as I seem to document it to be? Well, occasionally I do seem to encounter some excitement... or, a change from the daily grind, at least. The following is a true story from a poorly executed return trip home to Westchester from JFK International Airport (which is nowhere near Brooklyn, I might add).

I'm terrible with directions. I know it. My friends know it. And god help my family, for they all know it, too. That's why, when I leave to go somewhere from home, my parents try to make sure I've got a good set of driving directions written out and ready before I set off. So when I was leaving my house to take Matt to the airport on June 27th, and my hands were carrying the directions both to and from the airport, noone was too worried. Unfortunately, I am a master at botching up even the simplest of tasks.

Getting to the airport was practically a snap, except for one small part where I went to the wrong terminal's parking, but that really wasn't my fault because there was construction and the sign was infinitely misleading. But anyway, we got to the correct terminal a few minutes later, said a rather extended tear-filled goodbye, and then I left the terminal to go find my car in the massive parking structure (parking spot 204). But clearly I was still crying, and clearly I had splashed tears onto my hand-written driving directions home, so clearly the ink must have smudged... for why else would I have gotten on the Belt Parkway going in the wrong direction? I also must have had some form of time-released-semi-permanent eye damage, for why on earth would I have continued on the Belt in the wrong direction for an extra 20 or so miles, passing Staten Island and the Verizano Bridge, and driving right into the heart of Brooklyn via the BQE?

When I finally realized what I had done, I understood that I needed to get off the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway and find an entrance ramp to go in the other direction. Sounds simple enough, right? Wrong. Third Avenue in Brooklyn was perhaps the worst place for me to have attempted that seemingly simple move, as I ultimately would discover, while desperately searching for another on-ramp to the BQE. Ugh-- what a disaster.

Now, just to note-- I don't usually get scared when I'm lost. I've been in that predicament enough times to know that eventually things will work out and I'll find my way back to somewhere I'm familiar with. But just because I don't get scared, that doesn't mean that I don't get frustrated. And driving around Third Avenue for three hours, I think, warrants a little bit of irritation.

Mind you, it didn't start as a three-hour adventure. And I didn't really get upset until after trying to get back on the damn highway several times by backtracking with a ton of really difficult U-turns, going around lots and lots of blocks because of all the one-way streets. My emotions didn't even really escalate significantly until I realized with horror that I'd just passed the exact same gentleman's club for the third time. That's when the tears of frustration actually started a tiny bit, which only pissed me off even more. Grrr.

At that point I was only about an hour and a half into my trip, so while incredible frustrated, I wasn't quite worried yet. Logically then, I called home to get some assistance, but that unfortunately proved unsuccessful. My next move was to stop at a gas station where apparently nobody spoke English... so I drove away and tried to get back on the road myself, only getting more lost. After another half hour or so, I realized that if I didn't stop to get gas soon, I'd run out of fuel before I ran out of Brooklyn, so I stopped once more. This time, while filling up, I also was able to get directions home. By that time though, I'd really started crying (something I don't often do while lost) and was really beginning to feel desperate. So desperate actually, that I had considered three options involving potential solutions to my predicament:

1. I was never going to find my way out of Brooklyn so I might as well start looking for an apartment to move into in the neighborhood.

2. I could drive straight into Manhattan and then call home again to get directions from a place my family knew more about driving around in.

3. I could slash my own tires and call roadside service to tow me home to safety.

I was actually about to pursue options 2 or 3 more seriously when the guy at the gas station saw my quivering chin and teary eyes and realized just how upset I was. Here is the conversation that ensued:

Me: Hi-- can you help me? I'm lost and I need directions.
Attendant: You're lost? Where do you need to go?
Me: The Throgg's Neck, or the Whitestone Bridges.
Attendant: Why? You want to go to Long Island?
Me: No, I want to get to Westchester.
A: Why do you want to get to the Bronx again then?
M: I don't, I just want to go home to Westchester.
A: So you need directions?
M: Yes, please.
A: OK, you got a dollar?
M: Are you kidding?
A: No-- we're in Brooklyn, honey.
M: Uh... ok. (I started to pull out money)
A: Wait, where did you say you were going? Upstate?
M: Yeah, to Westchester (the only time I've EVER willingly called Westchester "upstate").
A: Ok, that'll be two bucks then.
M: (shock!)
A: No, no-- just kidding. Ok, you got a pencil and paper?

So at that point, he gave me excellent directions, made me write them down and then read them back to him just to be sure, and I was on my way. An hour or so later, I made it home. Phew! It was by far the most stressful and irritating three-hour long driving experience I've ever had (even more stressful and irritating than the time my homemade duct-tape-and-paint-tarp sunroof cover blew off my car while driving 90mph on the Massachusetts Turnpike, even more stressful and irritating than the time I turned a complete 360* circle coming out of a parking lot into oncoming traffic straight towards a pedestrian in the snow, even more stressful and irritating than when I dropped my oil pan while driving home on Route 17 and my engine seized and my car died, and even more irritating, though slightly less funny, than my "egg carton" adventure, which you will also be able to read about shortly). But it also set me up to realize something important-- if you ever need help in Brooklyn, just show up at a gas station crying and offer the attendant all the money he wants to help you out. Or better yet, don't ever drive into Brooklyn. Trust me, it'll be worth it.