By a guy who has GPS, maps, and common sense—and somehow still ends up wherever it wants him to.
There are drivers, and then there are artists of getting lost. I am firmly in the latter category. Not by choice, mind you. But by fate, incompetence, and an uncanny ability to follow GPS instructions like they were written in ancient hieroglyphics.
Take hotels, for example. There’s nothing quite like waking up after a night’s sleep in a room you thought you knew, and suddenly staring at a hallway that seems designed by someone who hates logic. You open the door, look left… then right… and immediately forget which way leads to the elevator. Five minutes later, you’re wandering corridors like a confused ghost, mumbling, “Was I here before?” and beginning to suspect the hotel staff are quietly laughing at your plight. And they are. Oh, they are.
Then there’s New York City. Ah, New York—where the streets have names, numbers, and occasionally a sense of humor. This was when GPS was a standalone gadget. Garmin, bless its little silicon heart, gave up on me somewhere in the Bronx. I ended up in a place where the locals were staring at me like I had just declared war on the neighborhood. “What is this idiot doing?” they must have thought, as I tried to figure out which one-way street didn’t lead to another epic mistake. The horn symphony was impressive, though. Very orchestral.
Europe is no safer. The Netherlands, land of tulips and efficiency, seemed innocent enough. But a wrong turn and suddenly, without so much as a polite Dutch warning, I found myself in Germany. The language, the signs, the slightly suspicious looks—all screaming: “You’re not supposed to be here, Herr Amerikaner.” Somehow, getting lost internationally feels simultaneously terrifying and exhilarating. Like playing hide-and-seek with geography, and geography is winning.
And then there are the mountains. Years ago, I decided to get outdoorsy around Beckley, West Virginia—a place where the trees are tall, the air is crisp, and every hiking trail secretly wants to swallow you whole. I took a “short hike,” confidently ignoring the signs that clearly said, “Don’t wander off.” Fast forward thirty minutes, and I realized my phone/ GPS had thrown its hands up and left me for dead, no signal it says. Paths split into infinity, and suddenly I was arguing over whether the moss grew on the left or right side of the trees—because apparently, that’s how you find north when civilization has abandoned you.
By the time I stumbled back to the car, panting and covered in mud, I had learned several important lessons about getting lost:
- Panic is useless. It doesn’t help, it just makes you argue with your yourself about whether left is left or right is left.
- GPS is a suggestion, not a law. Sometimes it literally has no clue, and you have to improvise like a jazz musician without a piano.
- Food matters. Hunger amplifies fear and causes weird decisions. Never hike without snacks. This is scientific.
- Laughing is mandatory. The alternative is crying, and nobody looks heroic crying on a moss-covered trail.
- Getting lost is memorable. Sure, it’s terrifying at the moment, but years later, you’ll laugh until your stomach hurts while telling the story at dinner parties.
And yet… there’s a strange insight buried in all this chaos. Getting lost is one of the few experiences in life that is completely democratic. It doesn’t matter if you’re a CEO, an engineer, or someone who’s spent decades building railroads and bridges—the moment you don’t know where the hell you are, you’re just a human being staring at a map, swearing at a GPS, or wandering hallways like a caffeinated squirrel.
Sometimes, getting lost teaches humility. Other times, it teaches patience. Often, it teaches that your pride doesn’t survive the Bronx traffic, hotel corridors, or border crossings. But always, it teaches one thing: stories are made in the moments you have no idea what you’re doing.
So the next time you find yourself in a hotel hallway, wondering if left or right is correct, lost in a foreign country, stuck in the Bronx, arguing with your yourself over a mountain trail, or covered in mud somewhere in West Virginia, don’t panic. Embrace it. Take photos. Laugh. Maybe even write a blog post about it. Because these are the moments people actually want to read.
Because let’s face it: no one ever tells the story about driving perfectly from Point A to Point B. But most will be interested when you tell them about the time you accidentally toured Germany, the Bronx, your hotel, and the mountains of West Virginia.
Getting lost: it’s an art. And I, dear reader, am a master.
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A Kings 
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