Years ago, when our kids were small and we lived out west, we passed through Moncton, NB on our way east. We decided to stop for lunch and, when we finished, I jumped up and said to Len, "I'll just drive down the street to Tim Horton's while you take the boys to the washroom."
I hopped into the car and headed down the street, but the Tim Horton's I had seen earlier appeared to have vanished into thin air.
If I'd had a grain of sense I'd have turned back, but I kept thinking Tim Horton's had to be just a little further down the street.
Half an hour later I found my way back to the restaurant, with no Tim's coffee, looking pretty sheepish. Tim Horton's was one block in the opposite direction.
Summer 2009, we boarded the Caribou ferry at Port aux Basques and, when we docked at Sydney, I took a wrong escalator and ended up in the bowels of the ship, dodging semi tractor-trailers and opening doors to forbidden engine rooms. Once again, I was lost and had to shout up to a truck driver to help me find my way back up to the car deck.
If anything has changed for me, when it comes to the mechanics of getting lost, it's that the spaces I'm getting lost in seem to be shrinking, but that in no way mitigates the alarm.
This year it was the Deer Lake airport. But ask yourself ... how does one manage to get into such a predicament in a small regional airport?
Before going through security, I decided to visit the washroom. I stepped into the first stall in the ladies washroom, noting a sign taped to the next stall: 'Out of Order'. I slid the bolt to lock the door, and that's when things began to go wrong. For one thing, the automatic toilet kept flushing. Then, I had chosen a stall with no toilet paper. When I looked down, the floor had recently been washed, but it looked more like a bucket of water had been spilled and not quite swabbed up. I decided another stall was in order, so took my purse and carry-on baggage and pulled the sliding bolt on the door. It didn't budge.
The toilet flushed, triggering the toilet in the next stall. I attempted to slide the bolt again. It didn't move. I looked down at the floor; it was still very wet, so there was no way I could escape the stall by crawling under the door. The toilet flushed again, prompting the toilet in the next stall to flush again. I hung my baggage on the hook and used both hands, pulling the bolt with some force. I began to think deep, spiritual thoughts about missing my flight to Halifax, and the old insecurities came flooding back to the tune of the automatic toilets flushing over and over again. I was getting very warm in the stall, and I could hear the first call for passengers to proceed to the security gate. The clock was ticking but the bolt kept sticking.
"Is anybody out there?" I called, and a lady answered that yes, she was. "Please go for help, I'm locked in the stall," I said. There was a moment of silence; then she assured me that she would get help. Minutes passed. Had she forgotten me?
Much as I like a good story, especially a comical one, I was determined that I was not going to be the subject of a news release in the Western Star about a woman trapped in a 'can' at the airport, so I used every bit of muscle and determination I had and, after what seemed like a hundred tries, shoved the bolt to the right, and it opened.
I've taken wrong turns and been lost on the streets of a strange city, taken the wrong escalator and become lost in the bowels of a ferry, and now I've chosen the wrong stall in the ladies 'can' and become trapped for five very long minutes.
With that in mind, perhaps a PLB (personal locator beacon) might be in order. I'll have to add it to my list of What to Buy for Summer Vacation and, in the meantime, hope that when you take the girl out of the city, she can find her way out of the ladies can. It's the best I can do for now.
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