I got lost in Venice one cold and wet fall night a couple of years ago, ankle throbbing from a bad sprain, right turn after left turn, under this arch, over that bridge, through that stone corridor, trapped in an Escher drawing.   Panic parched my throat, until beside me I heard the shrillness rising in another tourist, also lost.   That calmed me long enough, this rite of passage to be lost in Venice, until I found and followed the bread crumbs back to my own hotel, lobby burning bright out into an empty dark and wet square.

Today I got lost in the suburban ruelles and walkways in my neighbourhood.    I went for a walk with Edgar.  There could be nothing more enjoyable today than stride on ground that wasn’t iced or snowed over, in full warm sun.   I passed African grandmothers taking their babies out to sun, Chinese seniors swinging their arms in gymnastic gyrations of good health, an East Indian woman crouched low on her back balcony cooking over an outdoor stove, and a stern Sikh man washing down his front driveway with a hose looking up to give me a smile and a cheery greeting of good spring day finally arrived.   This passageway led to a cul-de-sac, but another back alley hooked up with a street, that had another passageway through to a park, which linked with another passageway to a small street, running parallel to a greenspace which I could spy between the houses.  Every street was a Panamount, the suffix stretched thinly into every permutation that I could ever imagine; drive, street, blvd, hill, road, rise, row, square, terrace, point, view, view-point, way, passage, bay, circle, court, crescent, common, close, plaza, gardens, grove, green, gate, heights, heath, lane, landing, manor and mews.

How lost could I be in one suburban community of Calgary?  The day is bright and warm.  I have my big boy on a leash faithfully trotting beside me.  I did have a modicum of relief when my postal-lady pulled her jeep up to a bank of mail-boxes beside me.  She may not have recognized me, because I’m loser lady in a nightgown when she rings my buzzer at 11am with an endless procession of books for delivery, but she recognized Edgar.

“Oh, you’re way out.  You’re over there”, big smile, bemused.  I asked her where the big boulevard was, and she shook her arm in the direction that I trundled off in.  At the intersection of ruelle, park and passageway, I recognized one of the four main passages that run off my little park.   We turned down that path, recognizing the hill views I see from the back deck.  Home, bright and warm.