Why do some birds find their way from New York to Chile while I can get lost three blocks away from my own home? (True story.) I’ve had trouble navigating all my life— missing exits on the freeway, getting lost on cross-country flights, even walking out of a downtown store and turning north instead of south. What’s up? Am I just not paying attention? Is it genetic?

Take driving. We’ve just visited Amish friends near the tiny town of Canton, Minnesota and are headed north and home. We’re on the proper road—US 52—but nothing looks familiar. Then Barbara points out the Iowa highway signs. We’re going south.

I have driven multiple times to our friends’ house in Roseville. But today I’m not sure: do I take Rice Street or Lexington? What’s the street you turn off on? They’re on the corner of—which streets? Embarrassing to use a GPS to navigate to a friend’s house you’ve been to so many times.

I feel like a failure when I have to use GPS. “Penelope” speaks in a British voice but if she’s sitting in London, how can she know about the secondary streets in Minneapolis-St. Paul, not to mention traffic backups and construction zones? She usually dazzles in her directions but in rare cases she leads us down rabbit trails. In the worst case, Penelope points us a different direction than the way I pretty much know. Furthermore, my wife-navigator is certain we’ve already passed our destination. I do not sleep with Penelope so of course, I defer to my wife, do a U-turn, and get lost. Penelope gets ticked and goes silent.

Have you ever been on foot in a large city, crossed the street to enter a store and walked up a couple stories? Then you come down, exit, and walk away in the wrong direction? Anybody? Anybody? I’ve done that multiple times.

I always go to the same ENT doctor. But each time I have to verify: is the office building near Unity hospital or is it near Mercy? Which floor? The nurse leads me through a labyrinth of antiseptic-smelling hallways to the consultation room. But when I leave she needs to hold my moist hand to get me back to the lobby. Then when I walk out, I’m forced to use the panic button on my smart key to search for the honking car.

At our apartment in Oak Crest we have a football-field-sized main hallway, 50 yards down each wing. I walk home down the hallway and burst unannounced into Larry and Julie’s apartment. “Hi, Larry and Julie! No, nothing; just dropping by.” Their door is the last door on the right in the east wing. My apartment door is the last door on the right in the west wing. Not only have I done this three times but I don’t know why, or how to avoid it next time.

I have frustrating dreams about walking at night, lost in the rain. Or I’m walking in a vast city and recognize no landmarks. Or I’m late, heading to teach my college class but have forgotten my pants, or my notes, or haven’t prepared anything. Forgotten where the classroom is. Even forgotten where the bathrooms are.

I’m flying a twin-engine Cessna 310 from Amarillo to Kansas City. I don’t have instrument charts so I’m forced to fly visual below a rainy cloud layer. I’m too low to receive navigation signals so I follow the compass, aiming far ahead, trying to correct for the wind. Roads, rivers, railroad lines, small towns and fields flash by so fast and close I can almost smell the corn but I can’t identify anything. Finally I spot a water tower and circle it to read the name of the town and identify it on my air chart.

I’m flying in Venezuela and break out of the rainy clouds over the Orinoco river—second only in size to the Amazon. But I’m not sure if my destination is upriver or downriver and I’m low on fuel, flying over the broccoli of the vast jungle where airstrips are spaced out an hour or two apart.

Or take flying out of Anoka Airport, Minneapolis. This day I ask Jeremy to fly with me to Princeton, only fifteen minutes north. We can park there and walk over to the Hi-Way Inn for breakfast. (I call it the $100 breakfast.) The restaurant lies on US 169, a major highway; can’t miss it. But we fly right past Princeton and have to circle back. I warn Jeremy, “Don’t tell anybody.”

Anxious dreams. I’m flying at high speed along city streets below the building tops. Or I have landed and am taxiing through a grove of pine trees at night on a rainy, muddy track. Don’t know how to taxi back to the airstrip.

What’s going on? Years ago I only failed one portion of my flight program—navigation. I’ve worked really hard but have no evidence I’ve made much improvement so I pay extra attention when I fly cross-country.

Do I suffer from some genetic defect or something? Or is there some golden key that will perfect my navigational skills? I doubt it.

So when my wife asks me, “Do you know where we’re going?” I just say, “No, but I figure if I get in the general area we can just drive around honking and someone will find us and tell us where to go.” She rolls her eyes and stares straight ahead, mute.