Our vacation week is winding down and soon we’ll be returning to our normal beachless life. That is, we will as long as one of my morning walks here doesn’t result in my husband driving around, calling my name from the car window because I’ve never made it back.
Maybe it’s my inner gyroscope that is tilted off-kilter as soon as our tires hit the sandy roads of the Cape, but I find it almost impossible to navigate here.
If we’ve had the bad judgment to put me behind the wheel, we’ll set off in the car, pull to the end of our tiny, tree-shrouded road, and my husband will ask why I’m turning left instead of right, or taking Great Pond Road instead of Samoset. The honest truth is that I have no idea where I’m going.
A rat in a maze has a higher probability of getting to his goal than I do.
The roads here are to the most part unlabeled, and more circuitous than a twisted colon.
I’ll think I have a handle on the relationship of one road to another – “Oh yes”, I say, “this road is parallel to that other one and therefore leads to. . .”
But then it doesn’t, because it takes a whimsical turn, and then a dogleg, and then jogs back in another direction.
Yesterday I thought I’d be safe if I walked in a tidy circle, which would therefore bring me back to where I began. I plugged my book on tape into my head (Frog Music by Emma Donoghue) and set off for the end of our road, following a route that I thought would be logical, one road leading to another, and back again.
I did make it back, but only after walking right past the entrance to our tiny road (no street sign) and having to retrace my steps. If it hadn’t been for that gigantic hydrangea bush I noticed the first time around, I’d still be out there.
I’ve already informed my husband he’s forbidden to have any emergencies requiring me to leap in the car and drive him to medical care.