The Overlooked Pleasure of Seeking Directions
I’ve always had a terrible sense of direction. Street names seem to vanish in my mind, and even on the Manhattan street where I've worked for years, I often find myself staring at the Google Maps in my hand, hoping the blue dot will finally reveal which way I'm headed.
When I decided to embark on an eight-month journey abroad after the pandemic, traveling from Berlin to Taipei, I was overwhelmed by the myriad of digital tools available to navigate my way. I explored Nick Kembel’s blog on Taiwan, studying precise routes and the best order to enjoy Taipei’s Burma street; collected Google pins from friends for Berlin bars; and sifted through countless lists of MUST-EAT spots, HIDDEN GEMS, and places you simply can’t miss—because otherwise, it’s as if you never visited Taipei at all. I imagined myself encased in a digital bubble, propelled by Wi-Fi, strolling down streets with four- and five-star ratings flashing above eateries and cafés.
In October, I arrived in Berlin. With only a few days before heading to the German countryside for a writing residency, I opted not to purchase a roaming data package. For a while, I relied on screenshots of subway maps and the familiar sight of McDonald’s and Starbucks for free Wi-Fi. But one evening, my luck shifted. I was eager to grab a last-minute ticket for the Gorki Theater’s production of Drei Schwestern, yet the waiting list had already grown to six. As the crowd thinned from the lobby and a few were ushered in, an emo-goth blonde girl and I exchanged glances until the attendant announced, “No tickets! No tickets!” I stepped back into the chilly October night at 8:45 p.m.—too early to call it a night in Berlin. The COURTYARD_WI-FI connection kept failing, but I caught a text from a friend: the Humboldt Forum Museum is close, he said, and it’s open until 10 p.m. Towering, flat buildings loomed around me like shadows, unmarked in the darkness. I headed toward one, but the Wi-Fi cut out—I had stepped outside its range. My phone’s blue dot was now leading me the wrong way.
I was disoriented. For a fleeting moment, despair washed over me—then I recalled that I could always reach out and ask for help.
An older woman in an elegant tan coat strolled past me. I hesitated before speaking. “Excuse me,” I began. “Do you speak English?”
“Yes,” she replied, pausing briefly.
“Is this the route to the Humboldt Forum?” I gestured toward the bridge, directing my hand to Museum Island.
“Ah,” she replied. “This is the Humboldt Forum.” She indicated the white building directly in front of us. “But I’ve heard it’s not very impressive. Not much to see.”
I nearly chuckled. She smiled—her honesty wasn’t harsh, just straightforward, in a wry manner that I would later come to recognize as a German trait.
In New York, determined to be self-sufficient, I often felt a twinge of embarrassment at needing navigation assistance. Yet this experience reminded me that asking for directions didn’t signify weakness; I didn’t have to be glued to my phone. During my next few days in Berlin, I discovered that seeking help could be genuinely enjoyable.
The following day on the train, I sat beside a woman my age and asked for directions to a transfer stop. We ended up walking together through the S Bahn to the U Bahn, chatting about the contrasts between the New York City and Berlin subway systems. Later, in a large German drugstore, I asked a bearded employee for the vitamin supplement aisle, and he cheerfully pointed me in the right direction while sharing his recipe for a “feel better in three days” drink: 1/3 freshly squeezed orange juice, 2/3 hot water, and crushed ginger slices.
As modern travelers, most of us instinctively reach for our phones for directions rather than asking someone else. And who can blame us? There’s always that fear of embarrassment. Yet one of my favorite authors, the late Lauren Berlant, suggested that we have an inherent desire to be inconvenienced by one another. To be an inconvenience is to create bonds with others, allowing them to influence us and perhaps even change our course. When we set aside our phones, I found a refreshing culture shock: the freedom of surrendering control and embracing something greater—the warmth of human connection guiding us.
A few months later, my friend and I found ourselves frustrated on Taipei’s Burma Street, where many restaurants were closed. We approached a group of older men enjoying a variety of dishes with beer. “Excuse me,” my friend asked, “do you know where we could find a good tea leaf salad?” For a moment, the men stared at us blankly, and we exchanged uncertain glances. But then, a young man with chubby cheeks, who had been quiet until then, stood up and said, “I’ll take you!” And we set off, following our human guide, ready for a night of hearty conversation about the Taiwanese-Burmese diaspora and his dual life as a construction worker and college student, as the men cheered us on.
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Evaluation :
5/5