You Can Take The Girl Out of The Country…

You Can Take The Girl Out of The Country…

My front tire’s explosion was really not as dramatic as I thought it would be. I always thought if you were going down a four-lane interstate at eighty miles an hour and your tire exploded that the steering wheel would whip out of your hands and you would lose control. I am here to say that this is not the case, but it is still very disconcerting when you simultaneously hear a blast and feel the unsteady thwhacking of shredded rubber on cement, then your nose is pricked with a scent like scorched hair.

An hour and a half later, I made it to Nashville, elbowed my way into a parking space located in the library’s claustrophobic garage, and started hoofing it up toward the Legislative Plaza so I could at least catch the last snippets of River Jordan’s reading. Perhaps I was contemplating her spiritual memoir, Praying for Strangers, which encourages us to step outside of our comfort zones and reach out to others, or maybe I was recounting the times my family and a few others had met on various streets in Nashville for church–often having three or four different homeless people join our “service” at a time. Regardless, as I walked toward the homeless man seated on a bench with a floral comforter wrapped around his legs and garbage bags clustered at his feet, I imagined the deluge of people who had hurried by him on their way to the Southern Festival of Books and determined not to be another one.

Meeting the man’s dark brown eyes, I nodded and smiled with as much cheerfulness as my harried heart could muster. The instant I was parallel with his bench, the homeless man uttered something so foul I was sure I had misunderstood him. The pace of my steps quickened as did my breathing. The homeless man called out something in my panicked wake, just loud enough for me to hear and no one else. The phrase was as equally crass as the first, so I knew I had heard both correctly.

It was mid afternoon on a busy street; I wasn’t fearful, but I still felt slimed by those words as if the homeless man had hocked them in my face. Wiping sweat from my forehead, the day’s events became magnified by the vulnerability of my pregnant state and I thought to myself with tears in my eyes, Boy, I really do not like the city.

Two weeks later to the city I returned so I could attend Literary Libations at Union Station — a gathering that helps thwart the solitude of the writing profession — then attend author Lisa Patton’s reading at Vanderbilt’s University Club before meeting at a restaurant with some girlfriends from high school.

I am about as geographically impaired as a June bug tethered to a string. Seriously, put a blindfold over my face and spin me around and I could get lost in my own backyard (which is pretty big, but still). Because of this I knew I would have to preprogram my GPS with all of my destinations, which I did, but there are only so many things you can prepare for.

I have been to Union Station at least a half dozen times; therefore, it really was no navigational feat when I made it without any trouble. We only stayed for one hour rather than the usual two so we could make it to Lisa Patton’s reading. Two ladies came in as we were paying for our checks and buttoning our coats who did not know about the reading and that Literary Libations was going to be cut short. Somehow it got out that I had been to the University Club before, and that the location was also programmed in my GPS. The two ladies asked if they could follow me. Having only known them for a few minutes and trying to appear professional, I did not feel like I could explain about my geographical impairment that could or could not be magnified by the color of my hair.

Instead, I let my pride overrule my common sense and I told the ladies that they could follow me. Besides, my GPS had taken me to However, with Stellar iOS best-data-recovery.com recovery software you can regain all the lost and deleted contact details and save them in VCF, CSV and HTML formats. the University Club before. What really could go wrong?

We were about to find out.

The two ladies were kind enough to drop me off at my Jeep. I ran over, cranked the engine, flicked on my lights, and tried to get my GPS to load as quickly as possible. Of course, it took forever, and we were already late to the reading. I threw some dollar bills at the parking attendant and pulled out in front of the ladies’ tan car. The light turned green. I gunned it, not even paying attention to the fact that the vehicle on the other side of the street had the right of way. Swallowing, I looked into my rearview mirror. The poor people following me were probably already terrified of my driving and we hadn’t traveled one hundred feet. I dried my sweaty palms on my dress and listened to my GPS directing me down the convoluted roads.

Then my GPS did the unthinkable: it flashed black and red and said it was going to power off in twelve seconds. My desperation was so intense that I felt like I was in a James Bond movie; that once those twelve measly seconds were up, my Jeep was going to explode. I hit the GPS. I contemplated calling it bad names and threatening to chuck it out the window, but then — according to Baby Center — Baby Girl can now hear Mommy’s voice.

I wiggled the charger in the smoke thing. I hit it. I gave it such a look it knew the virulent words running through my mind although I did not say them. Regardless of my attempts, it shut off. Just like that, I had lost what little navigational prowess I had, and these two ladies I did not know were following me, trusting me to lead them like Moses through the desert of the city although I did not know where in the world to go.

I whipped my Jeep into a parking lot, and the other ladies pulled in, too.

“My GPS stopped charging,” I explained, trying to keep panic from my voice. “Put it in your car, then you can lead.”

The ladies were at first reluctant to do this, but I insisted. I knew the Vanderbilt University Club was located near Vanderbilt Hospital (I know, I know; you stand in awe of my critical thinking), but I couldn’t remember how to get there from where we were. They plugged my GPS into their own smoke thing and powered it on. I hit the University Club under favorites, and it seemed that all was good to go.

They turned around and pulled out into the street, and I was relieved that I was no longer leading. Then a group of people all wearing Predator hockey jerseys walked right in front of my Jeep like they actually trusted me not to hit them. Frantically, I tried to keep my eyes trained on the tan car, but I lost them in the visual tangle of vehicles, Predator jerseys, and taillights. I knew I could not just pull out or blast my horn, forcing the people to scatter for their lives, but I contemplated it. The crowd cleared; I squealed my Jeep out into the street and tried to remember which way the GPS was directing me before it had powered off. I turned down a street, but hadn’t gone a block when I knew I was in the wrong direction. I turned around, hoping to see the tan car again.

Nothing.

Three blocks later, I was even more lost and more frazzled, and the author reading was going to be over in twenty minutes. It was so late I was embarrassed to still attend the reading, but I was hoping I would run into the ladies there and retrieve my confounded GPS. I called my best friend who lives near Nashville. She navigated me to the hospital, and I yelled out the window to Vanderbilt students who gave me a slightly scared look, then directed me to the University Club.

Parking haphazardly, I sprinted into the brick building, found the room where Lisa Patton was reading, and stumbled into a seat before almost landing in the lap of a white-haired gentleman who looked all debonair in a crisp suit jacket and specs (I was beyond caring about professionalism at this moment).

I scanned the heads of the people in attendance, but I did not see either of the ladies who were driving the tan car. After the reading, I waited fifteen minutes, but then I had to meet my friends from high school. So I left, hoping my Jeep would pull a Love Bug and somehow know which way to go. It didn’t. I got lost. Again. I hadn’t seen these girls in six years, and I was really wanting to act like I had everything together now. That I didn’t get lost or drop change or fall into creeks anymore. That I was as professional and debonair as that white-haired gentleman in his suit coat and specs.

It didn’t work that way.

Ten minutes later, my friend called and asked, “Where are you?”

“I’m–I’m kinda lost,” I said, which is like saying you “kinda” killed someone. “I’m heading past Vanderbilt.”

My friend said, “Hold on, I’ll pass you to Sandy.”

My other friend proceeded to lead me to the restaurant. Five minutes later, I passed my Jeep gratefully off to the valet and ran over and threw my arms around my friend, who I would’ve erected a statue in her honor at this point.

Smoothing my hair, I walked into the restaurant with its low lighting and posh décor. My other friends were all seated around the table. They came and gave me hugs. I hoped my all-natural deodorant was working; I was sweating buckets beneath my blue wool coat. We took seats in the booth and smiled at each other. My gum fell out of my mouth onto the carpeted floor. Fifteen minutes later, I went to drape my napkin gracefully over my lap when I dropped my fork with a tinny ping.

Releasing a sigh, I gave up. Six years later, I am still the same as I always was. I still get lost and drop things. I fall into creeks and get ink stains on my clothes. If I smile at a homeless man, I am sure to get verbally assaulted. If I am wearing white, I am sure to go to someone’s house serving spaghetti. If I order a salad at a restaurant, I am sure to give a soliloquy with spinach stuck between my teeth. If I wear pantyhose and a skirt, I am sure to leave the restroom with the latter tucked in the former.

I know that people and their opinions can change, but I know two things about me that won’t: I will always be about as professional and debonair as a female version of Jed Clampett from The Beverly Hillbillies, and I will never, never like the city.