If we are at all
acquainted, you probably already know that I am remarkably poor with
directions. And you are probably amazed that I have navigated the Metro with
such ease. (Believe me, I am, too. Madrid makes it way easy, though.) Even
walking I have avoided major incident, which is kind of a big deal in my life.
Until Saturday, the
day before my sensory-overload excursion to El Rastro. And here is what
happened to yank me out of the sense of security I’ve been cultivating since my
arrival:
It all started with a
miniature field trip to the downtown neighborhood where Cervantes lived, worked,
published, and died. Even while planning it in class, there was a serious to-do
regarding the directions to the statue of Cervantes where we were to meet. I
drew a map in my notebook, though, and GoogleMaps exists for this reason, so,
really, I was in a pretty good place.
I’d forgotten that
these things always start in a pretty
good place…
So I set off with
plenty of time on Saturday morning, feeling kind of good about the day. I ask
no fewer than 2 pedestrians and 3 policemen for directions, but that’s ok, I
want to be sure of my route. And that is why policemen stand at street corners,
and I’m even giving the passersby a chance to do something nice. Go me!
But then I reach that
critical point: I am beyond my zone of directional comfort and I do not know
this intersection. This is right, right? And then the directions I am asking
for are no longer safety measures – I am actually a little confused. But that
is still ok because it’s the middle of the day, and surely one of these nice
people can point me in the right direction….Well, lots of people are willing to
point me in a particular direction, but it isn’t the right one. Feeling pretty
confident that the Plaza de Neptuno is important, I ask a policeman if I’m
going in the right direction. Answer: Yes. But then I mention that I’m looking
for the Cervantes statue, and he’s like: No, that’s another twenty minutes
away, in the Plaza de España…
To the Metro! Make it
to the Plaza de España. Well, almost. But then I get a call from a friend, and
I was right the first time. There are multiple statues of Cervantes in Madrid
(as I had guessed earlier), and I was looking for the little one, not the huge
monument. Uh, great.
To the Metro! Return
to the place where I’d asked that well-meaning but completely useless policeman
for directions. From this point, it should be another ten minutes or so. (i.e.
I WAS RIGHT THE FIRST TIME) I make it in thirty, partially because the rest of
the group has moved on to coffee, and partially because I’m so frustrated and
confused at this point that I just want to go back to bed.
I never make it to
the Cervantes statue, but I do make it to coffee, and that is reward enough for
me, after my very unnecessary, very long wander through the city center. Granted,
now everyone in the program who was not previously aware of my chronic state of
lostness is totally apprised of the situation…Just once I would like to be able
to shed the mantle of the navigationally challenged, but it now seems unlikely
that it should happen during my time in Spain.
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