Lost

Huge parking garages confuse me. And make me slightly panicky. It’s a logical fear. Think about it. Close your eyes and imagine a person walking through a parking garage. She might be a beautiful woman distracted by a love triangle, her hair uplifted by the wind of passing cars. Or perhaps he is a smart and charming con man about to escape a sticky situation. We all know what will happen next. Someone with a gun shows up, there’s a bit of clever dialogue, and then a chase scene ensues. Parking garages are filled with mobsters holding guns, just waiting for the chance to utter some pithy aside before giving chase. I know it’s true because I’ve seen it happen every time a character in a movie walks into a parking garage.

I’ve been thinking about this while visiting my mother-in-law in the hospital this week. The parking garage is huge, and I’ve gotten lost every single time I’ve been in it. I’ve manage to quell my fears about Hollywood mobsters, but I still get that panicky feeling when I walk away from my car. That’s because I know, deep down, it will take me forever to find it again.

It’s not that I don’t try. When I leave my car, I dutifully stop and look around for identifying features that will help me find my way back. But since every level of the parking garage looks EXACTLY the same, this method doesn’t really work. Once when I went with my daughter and her friends – all in ninth grade at the time – to the state fair, I solved the problem by taking fluorescent orange surveyor tape out of my glove compartment and tying it to the nearest electric pole. This not only worked, but apparently made quite an impression on my daughter’s friends. They’d bring it up years later as if I’d done something weird.

What makes parking garages so confusing, I think, is that you can’t just retrace your steps. I’ve tried that. The first time I paid careful attention as I drove in, looping around and around past handicapped spots and places reserved for medical staff, and parking eventually on what was the seventh level. (Or maybe the eighth). Then I tried walking down through the parking garage the way I had come. But that seemed dangerous since cars coming were headed directly at me as they swerved around blind corners. And it took forever.

The next time, I tried to look for EXIT signs. But the exit signs seemed directed toward cars rather than pedestrians, since they were mostly up high right in the middle of the garage. So I just took the nearest staircase. I stood at the top of the stairs, looked over to where my car was, and memorized the spot. Then I counted carefully as I walked down the stairs: six flights. As I walked out the door, I felt triumphant. On the way back, I’d just go in the door, up six flights, and find my car.

As the door closed behind me, I noticed that there wasn’t a handle on the outside. “Weird,” I thought. The sign read, “Emergency exit. No re-entrance.” There I was, out on the street, staring at a restaurant instead of the hospital. I knew if I just walked around the block, I could manage to find the hospital. It’s a pretty big building. But finding my car again? Impossible.

I’ve given up. I’ve resigned myself to the fact that I’m going to keep getting lost in the parking garage. I know that every hospital visit will end with me wandering through the parking labyrinth, pressing the panic button on my car key chain in hopes that a vehicle will suddenly blink its lights at me. I try to think of it as a walking meditation, giving me a chance to clear my mind of all the swirling anxious thoughts that accompany stressful hospital visits. Besides, I tell myself, it could be worse. At least I haven’t yet been attacked by mobsters with guns.