lost, for a little while


epic tales of getting lost: in search of Bryan Adams
October 19, 2010, 9:37 pm
Filed under: memories

The Canadian Bruce Springsteen

The name of this blog isn’t all just some tongue-in-cheek way to express my desire to become a vagabond. Nay, good sirs, it is a sure prediction of what is to come once I set out on my road trip, for I have possibly the worst sense of direction in the world.

I blame it on the fact that my girl scout troop spent more time making paper valentines than learning how to use a compass. My mom would say it’s because I refuse to stop and read a map whenever I make a wrong turn (but mom, it’s so much easier to just call and have you MapQuest where I am!). Whatever the reason for it, I get lost a lot.

Once, when I was seventeen, my friend Jenna got free tickets to a Bryan Adams concert. If you’re scoffing at the idea of attending a Bryan Adams concert, you obviously did not grow up in the era of Disney’s cheesetastic The Three Musketeers, and therefore missed out on the power ballad trio to end all power ballad trios: Sting, Rod Stewart, and Bryan Adams singing “All For Love.” You also might not know that the summer of ’69 featured the best days of my life. I only wish I had been alive for them.

Plus, you know, free tickets. Done.

The Meadow Brook concert venue is 20 minutes from my house — maybe 25, tops. Somehow, it took us approximately two hours to get there, and that was with three phone calls to parents, one stop at a gas station to ask for directions, and the presence of a perfectly good map of the metro Detroit area. I really have no excuse for this, and can only add that I was slightly out of my mind by the time we were a few miles from the venue. This was made only more apparent when, at a red light, Jenna opened her car door (to this day, I still don’t know the reason for this).

“What are you doing? Why are you opening your door? Close it!” My voice was somewhere at a decibel slightly above shrieking, but still below the range that is reserved for dogs and angry girlfriends.

Jen slammed her door shut, but not before those golden tickets caught a gust of wind and began their fluttering journey down into the embankment on the side of the road. The light turned green, and — though we were still gaping at the terrible turn of events — I advanced the car forward until I could pull off to the side, where we sat in silence for a moment before I turned to look at Jenna.

“Well, what are you waiting for?”

“Huh?”

“Jenna, if you don’t go find those tickets, I swear to God I’m leaving you here.”

Harsh? Probably. But she knew not to argue with Buckets O’Crazy when she’s sitting in the driver’s seat. J got out and walked the 50 feet back to the intersection. In my rearview mirror, I watched her pick her way down to the ditch while I held my breath.

Yahtzee. She ambled back to the car clutching two slightly-worse-for-wear tickets, and I floored it to the amphitheater.

To pre-emptively answer your questions:

  1. Yes, we are still friends.
  2. Yes, Bryan Adams is the best Canadian export since Alex Trebek.
  3. Yes, I am planning on doing this future excursion solo. Because not everyone is as understanding of my freak-outs as Jenna is.
  4. Yes, Bryan Adams was born in 1959, making him only ten years old in the infamous summer of ’69. Whatever.
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