Going the Distance--Or Not...

I went exploring yesterday.

I’m not quite sure what I was looking for, but wanted to see something new. So I packed up the pup and hit the road—no map, no GPS, no plan. Just drive “and go” as I like to call it.

I do like to spend my Saturdays driving and not knowing where I’m headed until I get “there.” I think more people should spend some time driving to nowhere and seeing where they end up. It’s quasi-therapeutic. That is—if there’s no traffic, no thunderstorms … and if you don’t get lost.

Yesterday, I had an end goal: Roosevelt Island, located right in the middle of the Potomac River. It’s full of trails, nature and even a Memorial that I had never seen before (which is a shocker when you live in Washington, D.C.).

However, my problem is, I can’t simply go from point A to Point B in a direct line.
Nope. Not me. It’s just not in my genes. I may plan on going to Roosevelt Island, but in all actuality, I may never arrive at Roosevelt Island.

A Three-Hour Tour (At Minimum)

I like to call my weekend excursions, “three hour tours” during which I usually find myself cranking up the music, rolling down the windows and discussing the day’s adventure with the pup as we cruise down the road at full speed—usually missing our exit to the final destination. Yesterday afternoon was no different.

There we were—cruising down the George Washington Parkway, listening to Muse when I could have sworn I saw what I thought was Roosevelt Island in my peripheral vision.

Shit.

Determined not to let my minor miscalculation deter my day’s outing, I decided to take the next exit and simply turn around and head north on the GW Parkway. That’s right, simply turn around and go the other direction. That’s what we always did in New Jersey. Get off at the next exit and simply turn around. However, I forgot that I no longer live in New Jersey—but here in the Nation’s Capital–which by the way, is not the friendliest city for those, ahem, navigationally retarded, such as myself.

Not so much.

The Directionally Challenged Should Really Stop and Ask for Directions…

So I decide to turn around and get off the next exit. And where do I end up? In the militarized zone of the Pentagon. “Lovely,” I thought to myself.

Now, if you’re not familiar with the Pentagon, they don’t just have one parking lot—they have more than 16 inter-connected parking lots filled with road blocks, bomb barriers and guards with guns—not exactly the tranquil setting of Roosevelt Island on a Saturday afternoon I had hoped for.

Needless to say, the pup started to get a little anxious. After all, I had promised her an afternoon of squirrel chasing and duck harassing—not one filled with barricades and check points. Even she could tell that we were not in the right place by simply standing up and looking out the window.

Maybe I should let her drive next time…

I wonder what the guard must’ve thought when he asked where I was going. Honestly, I wasn’t sure…I just knew the Pentagon was not my final destination. He shook his head as he gave us directions to “Wherever we’re going” obviously thinking we’re tourists. So, after more additional confusion, I finally navigate through the barricades and leave the bastion of the Pentagon behind me only to come to the realization that I was now completely lost.

Yet again.

Tourists, Tourists Everywhere

When the Washington Monument loomed ahead of me and swarms of summer tourists were seen hoarding the cross walks of the Smithsonian, the pup and I both knew we were in trouble.

Tourists were everywhere—with their fanny packs, visors, mom jeans and maps (apparently they all came prepared and knew where they were going and what they wanted to see today…)

I can’t believe I’m admitting this, but it actually crossed my mind: Do I stop and ask a tourist for directions? I can’t. I couldn’t.

I just could not bring myself to ask a tourist for directions out of the city I’ve lived in for close to 13 years. I found myself morphing into my Dad (bless his soul) when he would get lost. I found myself turning off the radio, sitting up in the driver’s seat, setting my hands firmly at 10-and-2 on the steering wheel and slowing down at every intersection so I could see what road I was on (sound familiar anyone?). After about the third intersection, he would inevitably start to mutter to himself: “God Damn it!” while everyone else in the car sat in silence.

And there I was: Getting more and more annoyed at the tourists’ jay walking in front of me, finding myself pissed off at the traffic holding me up from making it through the next intersection, and finally fuming at the fact that I am navigationally retarded.

Right on cue, I turned to the dog and muttered “God Damn It.”

John McLeod famously quoted, “It’s the Journey that’s Important. Not the Getting There.”

He never navigated the streets of Washington D.C.