Lost in Atlanta

Mom and I were lost in Atlanta on a hot summer day. It was the weekend of my 25th birthday and I had to go to Porsche Cars North America for warranty training the following Monday. She decided to tag along and we went down early to check out Hot ‘Lanta and sight see. Now, normally getting lost– let alone lost in Atlanta– wouldn’t be such a big deal. Except, my mom likes to ask strangers for directions…

Our trip to Atlanta was the first time I had every flown commercially. I had flown with my friend’s father in a Cessna, but nothing as big as what I was headed to Atlanta on. I was a nervous wreck. I actually took a “afraid to fly” course on the Internet just to prepare myself. I was ready. I could do this. They call our flight and we head up to the gate to board. Then they opened the emergency exit door. All the passengers proceeded to walk down to the tarmac to board a commuter jet to Detroit. Yeah, I couldn’t do this.

We finally arrived (safely!) in Detroit and boarded our connector flight to Atlanta. On the flight to Atlanta, there were thunderstorms and it was a very scary flight. Not good for a first time flyer! We arrive in Atlanta and head toward the hotel in our rental car.

The next morning, we decide to head downtown to check out the Coca-Cola Museum and the Underground. We grab the map and directions and head out. The third time we drove around downtown, my pulled off on the side of the city street to ask some construction workers for directions.

Dude walks up.

Dude asks us if he could help us.

Mom says we are lost in Atlanta.

Dude leans into the window

Dude is practically lying across me to look at the map mom is holding.

Dude doesn’t know. He is from out of town.

Dude yells for another dude.

Second dude comes over.

Second dude leans into the window.

Second dude is lying across me to see the map.

(Just for the visual, he is so far in the window that his stomach is where I am sitting– I could have smacked his butt he was that far in the car.)

Now, remember… these are construction workers. And it was August. And they don’t call the place Hot ‘Lanta for nothing.

They reeked of sweat. And cigarettes. I am not even positive that they didn’t sweat on me.

Meanwhile, we are stopping traffic in the middle of the street. During rush hour. First dude starts screaming at the other drivers to stop being idiots and go around.

Thankfully, the second dude was able to tell us how to get where we needed to go. We arrived at the Coca-Cola Museum in one piece, unmolested, and smelling just a tad bit like sweaty, smoking construction workers.

I wish I could say that was the worst part of the trip. But it wasn’t. We arrived in Detroit on the flight back and were stuck in the tram during a power outage and almost missed our flight. But, that’s another story.

But seriously, how many Ohio chicks can say they stopped traffic on a busy Atlanta street during rush hour? Not many.