It’s Okay to Be Lost

“So this bus does go to the North Station? For sure?” I asked in Spanish, again, glancing out the window at the unfamiliar surroundings.

“Yes, yes. Certainly,” the man responded.

But by the time the bus pulled into the final stop, I wasn’t too surprised to step out and find myself at the wrong station, one I had never seen before. I’d been in Quito less than a week – little enough time to take the wrong bus and have no clue where I was going, but long enough to realize that I was in a completely new part of town. I had no idea where.

There’s a sinking feeling that comes when you realize you have absolutely no idea where you are: a frustration with your surroundings, a shrinking confidence, and a disappointment in yourself for not investigating better, evaluating better, choosing better. There’s an urge to withdraw that comes with not knowing what to pick as a career field, what to say in a conversation, what to respond to a friend’s betrayal, what to believe in a world that sometimes seems bent on destroying itself from every side. There’s a split second in which you can decide between one of two options: to reject the idea that you’re lost, leading to either apathetic resignation, a wired frenzy, or bull-headed perseveration; or to accept that you are lost and go forward from there. If you choose the first option, you may still manage to somehow get back on track, but you’ll enjoy the ride less, wear yourself out more, and probably take far longer to get back to where you’re supposed to be.

Being lost doesn’t mean you have no end goal; it just means you’re not sure how to get there at the moment. The reason we can say something is lost in the first place is because it belongs somewhere. So long as something is lost, it is not in the right place – but there still exists a place of belonging. It’s okay to be lost; it means there’s a possibility of being found.

Deep breath. Classes had run slightly longer than usual that day, and I felt tired and ready to get home for the afternoon. The thirty-minute bus ride each way was already enough of an adjustment for this not-yet city girl. Navigating an unfamiliar part of Quito alone would not have been my top pick on how to spend the afternoon. But you don’t get to choose when you get lost. Truth is, it most often happens when you feel you have less resources to deal with it anyways. Many times, the lack of resources contributed to your getting lost in the first place.

I had asked three people to confirm my direction on the ride to the wrong bus station. Either by mistake or misinterpretation, I had gotten an inaccurate confirmation of my course three separate times. (“¿Este es el autobus de la Estación del Norte?” I know, terrible preposition choice on my part.) Given that, I wasn’t terribly keen to ask for guidance again, but I didn’t have much choice. Choosing a path rashly on my own, as I had done when I initially boarded the first bus, would almost certainly lead me farther off course. I needed to ask for advice, and I needed to ask the right person.

Not affirmation. Advice. I had asked for affirmation on the bus, even as I started noticing that the city around me looked less and less familiar. “This is the way to North Station, right?” Oh, that little question tag (“right?”) looking for a yes, coaxing the answer I wanted to hear. Fortunately, I was at a bus station – an intersection with overwhelming choices that forced me to pause rather than continue barreling confidently, blindly forward. I needed to talk to someone who could help. Not the random kind stranger who happened to be the closest person next to me on the bus. Not the ticket booth workers who couldn’t be bothered to give more than a quick nod as an answer. Someone who would give me advice that would actually help. It didn’t take too long for me to spot her.

I asked the woman how to get to my bus connection, the bus I was supposed to get on from Estación del Norte, hoping that I was somehow still close and might be able to get directly on the right one from here.

“Oh, no, that one’s not here,” she explained. “You have to go to the North Station for that.”

Yes. Yes, thank you, I know that. I thought I was headed there. Apparently not.

“So where am I now?”

“South Station,” she answered.

Oh. Ouch. Complete opposite side of the city. Not what I wanted her to say. Why is it that the words that can help us the most are so often the ones we least want to hear? But they were the words I needed, and she pointed me towards the right bus stop for the return.

Well – I knew I probably wouldn’t be back this way again any time too soon, so I figured I might as well enjoy the time passing through. Realizing my return would take a while, I relaxed and settled in for the trip back, still not fully certain I was on the right path. I channeled the energy I might have otherwise spent on feeling nervous or frustrated towards enjoying the ride and learning from the journey. I chatted with people on the bus. I forced myself to remain aware of those around me in the process and give my seat to the older woman entering the bus, to the young mom holding her baby looking for a place to sit. I watched the city, the buildings covering the valley like so many fallen leaves, the clouds enveloping the mountains and descending onto the tips of towers.

Two hours later, I made it back home. By the time I walked in the door, I was sweaty and tired and hungry and had lost a couple hours in the day, but I was fine. I could count it as a full-city bus tour. I had gotten lost in Quito, and I had let myself enjoy the ride.