(originally published Dec. 5, 2011)
When I told Matthew about I Know Where I’m Going!, he said, “I already know what you’re going to write about.”
I asked, “What?”
He said, “You know.” He meant the time I drove from Houston to Denver and nearly ended up in Oklahoma. Or the times he’s sat quietly as the highway exit we needed to take passed by. Or the time I drove around a mall parking lot for what seemed like hours, unable to navigate its labyrinthine entrance-exit system. I am, as Matthew puts it, ‘directionally-challenged.’
While in Scotland this summer, however, I knew exactly where I was going. I knew which bus to take (Lothian Buses #49, The Mary Queen of Scots) to get to Edinburgh from where I stayed in Lasswade. I knew that Craigmillar Park, Mayfield Gardens, Minto Street, Newington Road, Clerk Street, Nicolson Street, South Bridge, and North Bridge were all the same road, and as I traveled along it (them?), I noted the bed-and-breakfasts dotting the route: Thrums, Airlie, Heatherlea. In the city, I navigated between music stores: Hog’s Head, Avalanche, Underground Solush’n, Fopp. I conquered the bend where Victoria Street becomes West Bow, and where a roast pig sits in the window of Oink!, its skin crackled and scored into diamond-shapes, awaiting my delectation.
But, to be honest, I lost my way once—just once!—my first full day in Lasswade. I was walking from Hawthornden Castle to Bonnyrigg (which we residents had dubbed ‘the Brig’) for Internet access. The map I had been given was a speckled and faded seventh-generation photocopy. Streets faded at the edges. Nonetheless, I made my journey, confident that I would find my way. And I did.
On the return trip, however, I got turned about. A landmark church somehow ended up on the other side of town. I counted intersections until I was supposed to reach the correct one, but they didn’t add up. Still, I forged ahead. This was, after all, suburban Edinburgh; I didn’t fear football hooligans or the Corryvrecken. The sun didn’t set until well-near 10.
But it was getting late nonetheless. I had nearly walked to Loanhead, almost 2 miles off course, and acres of grasslands opened around me, dotted by occasional patches of poppies, a red tide, when I turned back towards Bonnyrigg. Still couldn’t find my way out. Flustered, I stopped into a pub, The Laird and Dog, where the locals regarded me with pity, curiosity.
“I’m trying to get to Hawthornden Castle,” I said. The name didn’t register with the bartender or wait staff. I repeated myself, slower, as if this would translate English into Scottish Gaelic. A red-nosed bar patron said, “Ah!” and explained to the others. The bartender looked at me—Why didn’t you just say so?—and explained the way. Or so I think—his brogue was opaque, nearly impenetrable. But I followed his hand gestures: cross the creek?—no, bridge; turn left; keep going past the Polton Inn. Can’t miss it.
I returned, just in time for dinner. As it turns out, the Hawthornden Castle administrator had driven past me as I was striding towards Loanhead. He had considered stopping and giving me a lift, but, he said, “You seemed like you knew where you were going.”