The Digressions of dr sanscravat
On Asking for Directions
No man wants to do this, naturally.
It's a sign of weakness, a pathetic willingness to put oneself at the mercy of strangers, a lack of faith in one's ability to fend for oneself. More than this, however, it marks one as the sort of man for whom the destination is more important than the trip itself.
When a man takes off down the road, with utter uncertainty as to where that road may take him, he always wears a mask of complete confidence. That's because he knows, in his heart of hearts, that he is fulfilling his destiny as an intrepid explorer, the sort of man who fears not the dragons that lurk just over the edge of the known world -- nor even that there might be an edge to fall off.
Besides, there's always the possibility that -- somewhere along the road less-traveled -- he'll find something unexpected, something wonderful, something far better than whatever it was that he intended at the beginning of the trip. Maybe an honest-to-god barbecue joint in North Carolina; an Arizona road-side stand selling Navaho tacos; a shack in Nova Scotia, serving up lobsters that have been out of the ocean for less than thirty minutes; a spot over-looking the Oregon coast, with fully-laden blackberry bushes -- taller than the car -- and free for the picking.
