Directionally Challenged

I can still visualize the street corner in Barcelona, Spain where a woman in her mid-thirties with slick, ebony hair and a rushed look begged my pardon and asked for directions. It was July 2003, the summer after my junior year of college. I had been living in the city for four weeks doing an internship in the marketing department of a law firm and was put up in a little flat in the Gracia neighborhood. Up until that point I had always been on the asking side of the directions exchange. In my spare time I wandered up and down La Rambla and yo-yoed the Metro with a purpose. I was never ashamed to ask a passerby for help in my quest to check off as many sites as possible in my thick Lonely Planet.

It came as a shock to me, then, when this woman stopped me on the corner and in Castilian asked me, “Where is the Fontana Metro station?”

I was even more shocked that I knew the answer, “Go down two blocks make a right and it will be a few blocks down on your right.”

She thanked me and rushed down the street. I stood there for a moment with a proud sense of accomplishment. First, a Spaniard mistook me for a Spaniard- any undergraduate Spanish major’s dream. Second, I was able to give directions in a foreign place. I realized that in all of my exploring I had reached an expert level of spatial comfort and familiarity with the city. I felt like I had conquered Barcelona.

Since that day the ability to properly give directions to a stranger on the street has become my litmus test for “conquering” a city.

It is now July 2013. Exactly ten years since my encounter on the streets of Barcelona with the lost Spaniard. I’ve lived in New York City for 23 months and people stop me on the street and ask me for directions all the time.

The first time it happened I had been in the city for less than a month and was meeting a friend in the East Village. I emerged from the Astor Place 6 train station. I looked around me- six streets were colliding into a concrete partition and I was standing in the middle of it. I couldn't tell east or west from up or down. It didn't help that at the time I was living in Murray Hill and any intersection that was not perpendicular startled me. I grabbed my iPhone from my purse and took baby steps as I tracked my little blue dot on Google Maps to figure out which direction I was going. I was pretty sure I was walking east when someone came up to me and asked if I knew where St. Mark’s Place was. Seriously? I can’t imagine I looked like I knew where I was going.

I now live in Nolita. I’m in the heart of the city and feel at ease getting around most areas of Manhattan with the exception of the Financial District and the West Village (wow-crazy street plans). I am no longer scared of Astor Place.

I continue to be a magnet for lost pedestrians.

If I think I know how to give the right directions I attempt to answer. Often times, while I pause and fumble over my words, some frank, accented, true New Yorker will jump in to say, “You’ll wanna take the 2 to Fulton Street and transfer to the A train going towards Far Rockaway” or “You’re looking for Hudson? Go straight up Bleecker 5 blocks and you’ll hit it.”

Months ago, a guy getting on the 6 train at Union Square asked if the Downtown train stopped at Spring Street. I could definitively answer, “Yes.” This exchange gave me a new level of confidence in my direction giving ability. I decided I’d challenge myself to a little game. I began to keep a mental tally that goes a little like this:

Someone stops me on the corner of Spring and Lafayette and asks which direction Greene Street is. I know the answer. Point: Annalisa. Then four days later on the same corner a tourist asks where Wooster Street is. I don’t know the answer. Minus one point.

Sadly, Wooster is only one block west of Greene. So close.

I like the freebies. I’m standing at the entrance of a downtown subway station, and someone stops me to ask, “Does this train go downtown?” “Why yes, it does,” I say with a smile. Never mind there is a sign 10 feet from our noses that says, “Downtown.” I’ll take the slop. Point: Annalisa.

And so the game rolls on…

I work downtown across from Battery Park and make a point to get out at lunch and weave through the buildings on foot. The area is quite charming. It was the status quo when, on a recent lunch hour stroll, two middle aged British tourists stopped me and asked if/how they could walk to City Hall. I directed them to Broadway and suggested a stop off at Trinity Church where Alexander Hamilton is buried. Extra points for the scenic route.

As I was showing these two ladies where Trinity Church was on their map a co-worker of mine, Nyoka, walked by and questioned, “Anna?” “Just giving directions.” I replied.

Back in the office Nyoka came by desk and laughed at the scene she had witnessed. “I don’t know why I always get stopped for directions,” I told her.  “It’s because you have a kind, approachable face,” was her reasoning. I had always thought I had a mean resting face so this was a revelation. I felt a new sense of duty in my quest to conquer NYC through direction giving.

I had been on a roll, guiding lost souls through the streets of New York for weeks straight when I was stopped downtown last week after work. Did I mention earlier I am weary of giving directions in the Financial District? OK, just checking. So, this guy in business attire asked me how to get to Front Street. I thought I knew so I directed him up Broad Street and told him to turn onto Dover that eventually intersects Front. He said thank you and walked in the direction I had told him to go. Then I checked Google Maps on my iPhone to check the accuracy of my directions. I had led him on a less than direct route. I was loosing my touch. I figured he’d get to Front Street… eventually. Oops. Can we call it a draw?

I found John Street.
He has a good view of the Freedom Tower.

Last week, on the subway a little lady asked which stop was closest to John Street. John Street? I’d never heard of John Street. A heavyset man in a Mets t-shirt leans over and says with his New Yorker accent, “Fulton Street.” Point: Mets fan.

Then, just today I was waiting for the 6 train and a group of Eastern European tourists asked me how to get to Battery Park. “Take the 6 to Brooklyn Bridge / City Hall. Transfer to the 4 or 5 and get off at Bowling Green,” was my reply. Easy. Putting points back on the board.

I’m not sure I will ever “conquer” New York but the game continues….