Robertson essay: Being lost--a new find for me

In the course of an average, planned-to-the-minute day, I rarely schedule a time to think, to reflect, to wonder. Now I’ve got three and a half hours for possibly that purpose alone.

I am writing this on the back of my map, sitting in my car on Atlanta’s I-285 Perimeter road, a five-lane, circular highway enveloping metro Atlanta. Just after the five p.m. rush hour, the typically-bustling freeway is now comparable to cars oozing out of a crowded parking lot.

Not only that, but steaming, indiscriminate eighteen-wheelers loom to my right, my left, my front and my rear. If I really wanted to see blue sky, I suppose I could open the sun roof.

I have to be honest with you here: I am not feeling courage or collaboration or community service. All I want is to escape my 72-wheeled box, find the nearest exit to I-85 and find out whether Freedom Parkway will be my ticket home.

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