Robertson essay: Being lost--a new find for me

Psalm 141:10

"With my voice I cry to the Lord; with my voice I make supplication to the Lord. I pour out my complaint before him; I tell my trouble before him. When my spirit is faint, you know my way."

In the course of an average, planned-to-the-minute day, I rarely schedule a time to think, to reflect, to wonder. Now I’ve got three and a half hours for possibly that purpose alone.

I am writing this on the back of my map, sitting in my car on Atlanta’s I-285 Perimeter road, a five-lane, circular highway enveloping metro Atlanta. Just after the five p.m. rush hour, the typically-bustling freeway is now comparable to cars oozing out of a crowded parking lot.

Not only that, but steaming, indiscriminate eighteen-wheelers loom to my right, my left, my front and my rear. If I really wanted to see blue sky, I suppose I could open the sun roof.

I have to be honest with you here: I am not feeling courage or collaboration or community service. All I want is to escape my 72-wheeled box, find the nearest exit to I-85 and find out whether Freedom Parkway will be my ticket home.

My realization thus far: So Atlanta is not just a glorified Chapin, SC, nor even a Columbia, SC. It’s not a New York, not a Chicago; Atlanta is one of the largest, most cosmopolitan yet culturally distinct cities in the Southeastern US.

For me, a self-described people-person, I expected to recognize the Southern culture of Atlanta in the daily interactions with people in my work and wanderings. Separated from the people and city by the metal, plastic and glass of my car while driving, I am forced to discover other aspects of Atlanta’s Southern culture and debate philosophy with myself.

First, Atlantans hardly ever use their horns, unless they want to speak with you. The horn is exercised as a courtesy of communication, not out of anger or useless frustration. This morning I waited at a red light and heard a loud toot to my left. My face burned with red embarrassment and I checked frantically for signs saying “Do Not Enter” or “Turn Only.” However, the source of my worry smiled sheepishly and hand-motioned whether she could get in front of me. Even in the forty-five minutes I’ve thus far experienced on this roadway, the vehicles have remained silent even to cutting drivers and rushed, speedy maneuverings. Everyone I’ve polled agrees: using horns is just not done.

Second, people get lost all the time. One special moment from yesterday occurred when I glanced at the car to my right and saw the driver scrutinizing a Google Map printout quite similar to my own. As it drove past, I spotted the Georgia license tag. Yep—even the natives get lost.

Next, as I still sit here (and we’ve moved underneath a bridge, now—goodbye, rectangle of blue sky) I’m considering a question applicable to life in the South and anywhere else.

Is it better to move along rapidly and have no notion of where you will end up, or better to make little progress and know your precise path?

In terms of my traffic experience, being lost and traveling rapidly has introduced dozens of fascinating new options for me. Who knew there was a Center for Puppetry Arts? I’ve got to see that. Is that the tenth or eleventh Publix I have passed? Are Peachtree Street, Avenue, Road, Circle and Court all one and the same? And apparently Atlanta is a one-way town: countless single-direction streets and innumerable churches. I’ve now seen everything from the Ritz-Carlton/Lenox Square/Phipps side of town to the homey Decatur suburbs to the slums of the inner-city never pictured on Atlanta postcards.

I once thought that driving was just transit, a relocation of presence requiring some thought, a set of wheels and expensive gasoline. Here, however, traveling either by car or via MARTA (Atlanta’s public transportation system) allows everyone to see and explore the constantly-changing city. Transportation is a key issue for all the city: the homeless, the Georgia State students, the Coca-Cola tycoons, and this visiting Robertson Scholar.

In hopes of finding where I should be, I’m finally forced to try all sorts of promising turns and intriguing paths. Maybe always having a plan hinders me from discovering something new. Then again, I arrive at my destination countless minutes earlier if I’ve got a strategy. I dislike not knowing the possibilities.

I do know that now I appreciate the benefits of the drive, namely the scenery and the chance to see an urban side of the South previously unbeknownst to me. Now I get to tackle an enormous, sprawling city with more stories and streets than I can navigate in two months. Now Atlanta forces upon me the opportunity to just sit and consider life—never mind, traffic’s moving again. I’m off to get myself lost and maybe find something along the way.

Back to abbreviated Idiot's Guide to Atlanta