An existential crisis.

Maps have failed me. This may not seem like much to the non-map-people among you, but I assure you this is a weighty matter.

I just tagged along with my parents on their trip to Ireland (in no small part due to an expanding sum of frequent flier miles). Me and my "young eyes" were designated official navigator. Even with two different maps, printed Google directions, a Rick Steves guidebook, and only occasionally helpful road signage, we still had to ask locals more than my injured pride would have liked. (Thanks, though, especially to the nice petrol station attendant in Loughrea, or we would still be driving in circles looking for the entrance to the motorway).

The very core of my identity has been shaken. The alternative is, the country makes no sense. Which can't be true, the people are lovely.

(Read fast!)

If I believed in karma.

(A little late... some of you have already heard this story. Sorry, I'm catching up.)

I was in Seattle for work a couple weeks ago (only 8 more states to go!), and my sister flew up as well since she's off from teaching for the summer. She immediately loved the view from our 32nd floor hotel room. I made some sort of snide remark that she might not be so impressed if there was a fire and we had to climb down 32 flights of stairs.

The very next night? We climbed down 32 flights of stairs. (After being rudely awakened from my dozing during a late night House Hunters International. Don't mock.) And then sat on the sidewalk of downtown Seattle in our pajamas until the fire department gave the all-clear. Coincidence? My sister thinks not.

(If you can see it, that black stuff scattered across the ground is ash...)

(Also, I will admit to having momentary visions of Backdraft while I led our floor's occupants to the stairwell. No worries... I made sure to test the temperature of the doorknob before opening.)