Compost Studios

I must look like a native, and an approachable one at that, because I’m constantly getting asked for directions. People stop me on the street, pull over their cars to the sidewalk, or even accost me at the bus stop begging to know how to get somewhere. Of course, I’m assuming they’re asking me for directions. Since they’re normally speaking a foreign language, they could be politely telling me my fly is open, I have toilet paper stuck to the seat of my pants, or they think Dubya is an ignorant gun-toting cowboy, Dick Cheney should wipe that smirk off his face, and Condoleeza Rice has an evil eye. Who knows?

I always smile politely and say, “Desolé, je ne sais pas” (Sorry, I don’t know) or “Desolé. Je ne parle pas francais” (Sorry. I don’t speak French) or “Parlez-vous anglais?” in cases where I’m addressed in Dutch or German. (I’ve only successfully given directions once here, in French at that, and I was SO proud I’m going to add it to my resume's list of accomplishments.)

While my standard excuse for not helping lost souls is that I don’t speak their language, the REAL reason I can’t give directions is I don’t know how to go anywhere. Sure, I can sometimes tell you what bus to take or how to use the Metro, but when it comes to driving, I’m clueless to street names, geography, and what’s located where.

Part of the problem is that street names change every few blocks as the streets enter and exit French or Dutch speaking areas of Belgium and switch names, languages or both. Nothing is laid out on a grid here, the smaller roads are hundreds of years old and meander, and many intersections are unmarked. When there are street signs, they’re small and mounted on the side of a building. You can read them quite well as you approach on foot but forget being able to see them while cruising along in the car or spinning around a traffic circle with natives crowding you on all sides. On the highway, critical signs are often buried in the thick foliage shading the road's shoulder. You see your exit number in a blur of green leaves as you watch your chance at arriving somewhere on time disappear on the horizon. But while all this is true, the root of my problem goes deeper. Unlike my husband, I'm a spatial retard.

The E-Man has been undeterred by the lack of street signs because he’s a human GPS who navigates by landmarks, geography, and an inexplicable sense of direction. The man is a living atlas—I affectionately call him Mappy. He can get you anywhere. He’ll tell you if the road goes up a hill before you have to turn, how many traffic lights are between you and your destination, and the shape and color of the building on the corner there. He can sniff out a shortcut faster than a starving rat in a maze. The man always gets his cheese.

He’s amazingly patient in dealing with me, his spatially challenged wife. This is not because he’s morally superior (OK, so maybe he IS) but because he needs me for my verbal memory. He may remember routes but he can’t remember names. I kid you not, when we applied for a marriage certificate, he didn’t know his mother’s middle or maiden names. (“Give me a break! I always called her Mom!”) I’ve rescued him from many a social embarrassment by supplying names for faces and places he should know.

I’d like to think our marriage has survived because we complement each other, but the real secret to our success may be less romantic: I can’t leave because I’d be lost without him and he can’t file for divorce because he can’t remember my name.

October 14, 2005