For the last two Christmases, I’ve asked for a street map of Guadalajara.

An actual fold up map that I can keep in the car or an even bigger map that I can hang on my wall. A map that might finally convince me that I’m driving south to get to Mega when I’d swear I’m driving east. 

My daughter looks at me like I’m nuts. “What would you do with a map?” 

But I’m old school. I like maps. When I cleaned out my car before donating it and moving to Mexico, I found more Rand McNally’s than empty McDonald’s bags.

Not for me that hand held GPS that announces each and every turn and gets me places faster than I need, with little idea of how I got there. Or how to get back. 

I want to know where I am in relation to other places I’ve been or where I’d like to go. I want the big picture that lets me put it all together like a giant mosaic.

Because I like to wander a bit. Taking side streets that might make me late, but that will let me see cathedrals and painted trees and fancy gates that I would have missed on the more direct route.  

Truth be told, I don’t even mind getting lost on occasion. Pulling out a map and figuring it out. Or asking for directions and making turns guided by the number of OXXOs or fruit stands or the lady selling pistachios on the corner. Adding landmarks that will serve me well on future outings.    

There’s a certain amount of pride that comes with finding my way without the help of an anonymous voice mispronouncing street names and telling me when to turn.

My daughter leaves the house with a smug confidence that she’ll get where she’s going.  

I prefer leaving with a nervous excitement about what I might find.

As Dr. Seuss would say, “Oh, the places you’ll go!”

If only I had a map.