I had Friday off work to take yet another trip to one of the more populous areas of our fine state. Little did I realize how ill-equipped I am to drive in a city the size of Charlotte.

Since I had business to take care of, I scheduled the entire day off. I left out in the morning before 5 a.m., the lone and solitary vehicle on the road most of the places I went.

However, as I continued south along U.S. 21, I began to see a vehicle or two pass here and there. The large Thermos bottle of coffee I was carrying conveniently turned over and partially spilled in the floor, leaving me with hardly enough for three half-cups and eyes constantly attempting to close.

Since my appointment was at 8:30 a.m., I figured I might need the extra time to find parking. Charlotte is the kind of place where you need all the time you can get and five more minutes.

After reaching Elkin, traffic had increased somewhat. There were other cars on the highway heading the same direction as I and also going the other way. However, there still weren’t many.

After hitting I-77, I set the cruise control on an acceptable speed and settled in for a lengthy drive. The car moved effortlessly over the roadway, some of which appeared to be recently resurfaced. The further I went along, the more cars I saw.

By the time I reached Mooresville, literally hundreds of cars were in sight at all times. The closer I got to Charlotte, the more I felt like I was a worker bee in the middle of a very busy hive.

After carefully following all the directions, I found myself on a large and busy roadway with green arrows pointing skyward for traffic signals and no noticeable road signs. Behind the arrows were red lights, which more than once nearly caught me unaware.

I soon came to realize that, if you don’t already know where you are going, you probably aren’t going to find it. I took the opportunity to call some friends after stopping at a gas station covered with gangland style graffiti and surrounded, even at that early hour, with dangerous-looking youths.

Upon telling my friends that I felt like I had missed my turn, they informed me that, as Charlotte residents, they didn’t advise that anyone travel to that side of town.

That made me feel better as I told the young man with the screwdriver to leave my hubcaps alone.

He further informed me that the street I named was not even on the map he kept around the house for reference. That bothered me in a way, considering that he has lived there for about 40 years or so. Can you imagine living in a place your entire life and still needing a map to find your way around? I can. That’s why I live in a place with hundreds of dirt roads and zero four-lane highways.

Backtracking for a number of miles, I realized where I went wrong. Since it wasn’t fully light yet, I had overlooked the road sign for my turn and had traveled into ‘the wrong part of town,’ as my friends told me. I wonder if there is a place known as ‘the right part of town.’ If there is, I’ve never heard of it. Either you are in the wrong part of town or you are in another part of town. There doesn’t seem to be any good part or even in-between. After all, what could possibly be good about living in a city?

I still managed to find the office I was supposed to be at about 30 minutes early and settled in waiting for my name to be called. Once again, I was impressed by the variety of humanity in the office. All races, styles of speech and even a few other nationalities could be easily spotted with little more than a cursory glance around the room. One lady had on a beaded hat and large earrings and a shaw made out of a dead animal of some sort or another. She occasionally rubbed her hand over the fur while talking with the man sitting next to her. He was dressed in a very normal-looking business suit.

On the other side of the room, a pale-skinned man talked in a foreign language to the woman sitting next to him. Both were fashionably dressed, but I wasn’t close enough to make out what language he was using. It might not have mattered if I could have heard him or not. Soon after making my third mental voyage around the room, I realized that 30 minutes in a waiting room is sort of like four hours anywhere else. I think it was Ben Franklin who said, “Hold a stovepipe for a minute and it seems like an hour, but hold a beautiful woman for an hour and it seems like a minute.”

Franklin obviously had little experience with modern waiting rooms, which are nearly as fun as holding stovepipes. The instruments of torture include magazines that I’ve never heard of that are somehow always at least two years old. I found myself reading an article about Bill Clinton’s chances for re-election to the White House. Chances were slim, the article said. Glad I didn’t write that one, I thought.

I nearly wore my watch out looking at the time until, some 57 minutes and 12 seconds after my scheduled appointment time, my name was called. Why do we worry so about being punctual to a place that always calls out our names more than a half hour after were were supposed to be there? If that’s not crazy, what about getting there early to be called in late?

After finally getting that over with, I left in search of food. The most important meal of the day was left behind in my rush to get back on track after finding myself lost somewhere in the city.

After eating at a fast food restaurant, I noticed a sign for I-77 north and got back on the road. I really enjoyed seeing the traffic get lighter and lighter until I arrived back home.

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