I had dinner with a friend last night that lives in Alexandria, Virginia. You’d think as a lifelong DC resident, I’d know my way around … Good thing I have Annie, my portable GPS (MapQuest and I don’t get along—reading a map as I drive down dark, unknown roads is a recipe for disaster). I don’t name inanimate objects (I’m not eight), but after Annie helped me get to Annandale last year, I felt she earned a name.
Once I entered the address to the Mexican restaurant, I was good to go … except the suction that held Annie onto my windshield puckered out. Annie fell to her death. Good thing I had a backup navigation system on my cell. Annie II seemed to do the trick; until she told me I arrived at a stranger's ... casa.
People say it’s not manly to ask for directions. It’s not manly to drive around wasting gas and getting pissed off. I found myself in Old Town and asked a lovely couple for directions. They were tourists. Fuckers. My friend couldn’t direct me. Next thing I knew, I was on 495 going to Baltimore! Turn around! Turn around!
I asked a guy at a gas station for directions to the Mexican restaurant. “Oh!” he said. “They have bomb ass enchiladas. Stay on this road until you get to the light and turn left on, you know, whatever that road is.”
His directions, no surprise, were incorrect. Suffice to say, I eventually found the place. The enchiladas were just okay.