Lost in the 'J Zone'

TheLastStraw: If being a man means anything, it means you never, ever, ask directions. You know that to do so would be an admission of weakness. But you also know there's no need, because the Y-chromosome has an in-built global positioning system that makes it impossible for you ever to get lost.

So when I left my car in Dublin airport before Easter, I cheerfully neglected to make a note of the relevant zone in the long-term car park. Unlike the previous occasion, when I ignored directions to the "active" zone (go ahead and sue me, Aer Rianta) and then found myself shunned by the shuttle buses, I had complied fully with the system. The car was therefore on automatic pilot as it pulled in where ordered. But I knew I had turned left, and left again, and so was somewhere just across from the car-park entrance.

Returning late on Sunday night, I even thought about getting off the shuttle at the entrance. But the kids were having fun sitting in the luggage racks, so we took the bus all the way round instead. My confidence never wavered when we proceeded to visit parts of the car park I didn't know existed. Nor when I saw there were thousands more vehicles now than when we'd left. The banter of some female passengers, who openly confessed ignorance of their cars' whereabouts, didn't worry me either.

One American woman was resigned to staying on the bus indefinitely, until her six-year-old son declared "It's [ zone] Q, Mom!" and she remembered he was right. When they got off, the bus had just us and another couple, the male half of which was also relying on his personal GPS. He looked confident too.

A big hare went hopping past the kerb where I deposited my family. Heading into Zone R, after the hare, I assured them I'd be back in a minute. Another hare crossed my path, then two. The place was full of them: they were hippety-hopping in and out between the cars, none of which - I noted with mild concern - was mine. The area looked very unfamiliar. But I reasoned that this was because it was dark now and the zone was no longer active (unless you were a hare). The car had to be here, somewhere.

Twenty minutes passed and my search had widened to include several letters of the alphabet, when the other GPS man appeared alongside me.

"Normally I'm good at this," he sighed, realising I was in the same boat and that he was not admitting relative weakness. "But I was late for the plane, and I just didn't clock exactly where I was. I can remember which way I'm faced and everything - it's one of those rows, not these."

The man was baring his soul, and some reciprocation was required. So I admitted not knowing which way my car was faced: "But I turned left down there, and then left again, so it has to be in this general area."

Annoyed that the word "general" had conceded too much, I wished the man luck and returned to my family to enlist the older children's help. As we set off together, I had to remind them we were searching for the car, not chasing hares, as they preferred. But we might as well have been chasing hares, for all the good it did.

When we eventually returned to base, my wife was sitting on the kerb with the baby, huddled in a blanket against the cold. It was a pathetic scene. Not that there were any passers-by: but if there had been, they would have given her money. My conscience was piqued. I had hit rock-bottom: it was time to seek help.

I found a waiting shuttle-bus - the same driver, at the end of another run - and blurted the words: "I can't find my car." It was a relief to get it out. As the kindly driver advised, I then walked to the building at the entrance, pressed the intercom, and told the person who answered when exactly I had parked. She checked the logs and, after an unbearable pause, informed me that on that day and time, the active zone was "J".

The busdriver took me there. He turned left just as I remembered doing and then, where I remembered turning left again, went straight on. The car was nowhere near where I thought.

As I finally drove out of the airport, there was no sign of the other man anywhere. Maybe he had sought help too. But I suspect not. My guess is that, instead, he had turned into a hare and is now hopping aimlessly around the car park every night, like all the other men who just couldn't admit they were lost.