Dude, Where’s Your Car?

So today I learned that it’s never a good idea to get into the car with a stranger with an accent. They could be an illegal immigrant trying to use you for a Green card. Or, they could be a Columbian born and raised in LA but still has no concept of the area. My situation was the later. I was at the point in my writers class tonight that my eyes were so heavy, it was too painful to fight. Completely exhausted. I left class and took the first door I saw, not my usual exit route. About a half a block in my aimless wandering, I decided I should just go back to square one and exit through my usual door. As I was walking back into my building a boy from my class was leaving. He recognized me and apologized for not remembering my name. I in turn did not admit that in my head I had dubbed him “Mexican Boy” and I’d have to start with the letter A and work my way down the alphabet to even guess his name. He asked where I was headed and when I told him the street, Hilgard, he pointed with confidence to follow him. Fifteen minutes later I knew my way back through the building would have been easier. We reach Hilgard and stop in front of a church. I knew I had walked by it earlier because I remember thinking it was creepy (nothing against Christians but the image of a dead guy on a cross is something I don’t think I could ever warm up to), but I was unsure how far away my car was. He assured me his car was “right there,” and offered me a ride. I knew my car was close, but getting there via car instead of foot could only save time, right? Down the rabbit hole I fell, as we walked further and further down an enormous, winding hill. The walk soon became an impromptu date, as I was forced to make endless conversation as the minutes dragged on…and on. And like Alice, I was soon so confused I had no idea where I was or how to get home. Thoughts of kidnapping crossed my mind because clearly he couldn’t have thought a 40 minute walk was “nearby”? No one points unless indicating something is close. I wanted to run but where? I didn’t have a clue where I was, and there was no way my tight jeans were way too tight for a sprint uphill. To my relief, he wasn’t a rapist, just a moron, who also had no clue where he was. After what seemed like eternity he realized which turn to make. “It’s the white car over there.” We walk over there, and pass a white car. No, not the close one, the one “over there” – if you strain your eyes you may be able to see it. Finally in his car, then the next leg of the journey as he once again travels in a non-direct route. I almost cried tears of joy when we finally pulled up to my car, and slammed his door shut as he was mid-requesting my email (less threatening than a direct ask for the phone number). I hoped in my car, pulled out, and within less than 30 seconds, was staring at that god damn church, inches from where my car was parked.