No Right Turn

“Nothing takes longer than getting lost,” said hubby.

Wise words from a Getting Lost Expert. On this, the Fifteenth and Final Day of our eight-country European family roadtrip, we’d moved from profanity to profoundness.

“Tomorrow at this time, it won’t be this time,” I replied.

Taking three teenagers and their tweenaged sister to Europe in 1999 took more planning than a shuttle launch. Eventually, the only minivan available in Europe was ours. Or was it a microvan? After an hour of arranging and rearranging the luggage, we were all finally inside. Now we had to go places.

“Turn here,” I said.

“No, we need to go right,” hubby replied.

“No, left.”

“If you say so.”

Suddenly, we found ourselves circling The Arc D’Triomphe in Paris, on what is known as “the craziest roundabout in Europe.” Twelve lanes of pure hell we’d agreed to avoid. Muttering profanities, hubby eventually guided us to safety in a generally easterly direction out of Paris, until we were . . . lost.

Getting lost wasn’t all bad. We found the lovely town of Reims this way. Hubby delighted the kids when he circled the town’s small roundabout repeatedly while laughing hysterically. I was relieved when I eventually realized he was just doing an impression of Chevy Chase in the European Vacation movie and hadn’t already lost his mind.

Three things occurred daily in this pre-GPS era. Getting lost. Hubby and I “discussing” our lostness. And, inevitably, unnecessary right turns.

“If you’d slow down, I could see where we are,” I’d say.

“If we’d turned right in Paris, we would’ve been fine,” he’d respond.

“That doesn’t mean the answer to every problem is a right turn!”

One time we didn’t know what country we were in. Luxembourg. Another time we didn’t know what day it was. Tuesday. And this was only determined after I translated the sign on the door of the only restaurant we’d seen for miles: Fermé le mardi. Closed on Tuesdays. So why isn’t it open? I thought. Oh, it’s Tuesday. There were times we didn’t know what time it was. Lunchtime. Always lunchtime.

The incessant, ‘Are we there yet?’ to the tune of Oh My Darling Clementine from little sister buckled in next to the luggage wall had become less than amusing by about Day Five. Cargo child also let us know she was paying closer attention to our ongoing “discussions” than we’d realized when on about Day Ten she said, with genuine wonder, ‘Isn’t it amazing how we always get to where we want to go?’ Of everything she’d seen, simply arriving was a highlight.

The epic “lost” moment happened in Sweden on this Fifteenth Day. Friends were expecting us at a specific time. We only needed to stay on a major highway between two cities. Nothing could go wrong with this plan. Right? Well, not so fast.

After hubby agreed to stay the course and not turn right, I finally allowed myself to close my eyes and take a mental break from this journey, confident our ‘getting lost’ days were behind us. I was so relaxed in that moment, I fell asleep. Oh, foolish me. Upon waking, I asked dear hubby how it was going.

“You’ll be proud of me,” he said. “I didn’t make any turns.”

“Okay. Good.” I looked at him closely. “Why do I feel there is a ‘but’ coming? Where are we?”

“Well, that’s what I wanted to ask you,” he said a bit nervously, “but you were sleeping so soundly.” He paused, “Okay. There was a sign awhile back that made it seem like we were supposed to turn right if we wanted to stay on the same highway, but I knew that would be a mistake. Right?”

“Are you kidding me?”

No. He was not kidding as the next highway marker with a different number confirmed.

Turning around to look at my brood, I asked, “Why didn’t any of you help your dad?”

“What?” the awake ones said as they took out their earbuds.

Cargo child sung, “Are we there yet? Are we there yet? Are we there, oh are we there?”

Yep. Nothing takes longer than getting lost.

Lost again, and late. Time to go home and find my sanity.

If only he’d made the right turn.