I don’t have the kind of phone with GPS. Or internet. Or texting. I have the kind that’s decades old, half the size of a Crispy Crunch, and only with me when I’m in the car and then only used to call someone should the car stop moving for whatever reason. Never for directions. For directions I use the Pull Over And Ask That Person There system, which involves a) hope, and b) trying to remember what they say about going along this road until you get to where the old liquor store used to be then left at the place that used to be the school and past where the Zellers was, directions that almost always include a big tree or a purple house at some point.

And I’m fine with that. Because even if That Person There isn’t sure, but… or I’ve already forgotten what to do at the big tree, not to mention I haven’t a clue where Zellers was, there’s something rather jolly about the asking, the standing there on the side of a road with a stranger who’s trying their best to be helpful and then possibly getting even more lost anyway but something has changed, this moment of personal contact that keeps me feeling hopeful as I trundle along, discovering a wooden bridge over a stream, a hilltop view, a tearoom, and a tiny community art gallery I’d never have found otherwise and I make a mental note to come back when I have time to explore.

Assuming I can ever find any of it again.

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