Over the course of my lifetime, I’ve gotten lost several times, some more significantly than others. There was the infamous and legendary Fourth of July incident in the late 1980’s, all over a mountain full of blueberries. Then during the 1990’s there was a job interview in Glen Cove, New York. On my way home to Lindenhurst, I somehow managed to end up getting there by way of Queens. My last misadventure, though, was no big deal. Recently, somewhere over the course of the past few months, I was supposed to drive my niece Bridget to work, a whopping grand total of around three miles from here, on Lindell Street in Long Beach. After I got her there, I was just supposed to make a U turn, back onto Park Avenue and to come back over here. Somehow I managed to turn right instead of left. I ended up in the neighborhood where all the streets are named after presidents. Not having gotten to know the city anywhere near so well, back then, as I have since then, I got quite frustrated. I wasn’t overly nervous because I knew nothing extremely bad could possibly happen. I was simply intensely restless, though, because I couldn’t wait to get it all over with. Conveniently I spent much of the time on streets that were parallel to the one I was supposed to be on anyway. It was during the cold weather and at that time of the afternoon the sun goes down, leaving a lot of glare to have to contend with. That, combined with the traffic congestion, made it quite an annoying ordeal. I’m notoriously bad with new experiences and anything that’s beyond my control. Of course I ultimately knew that sooner or later it would inevitably end anyway. I just wish it could have been less harrowing. At least if I could have gotten lost on a main road, in a business district, I could have stopped someplace for a while. Those side streets are nasty and unforgiving though.