Ever since I tore both the medial and lateral menisci in my right knee, things have not been right. I limped for nearly a year before I had surgery to trim them up and hopefully reduce my pain level. Then I limped for three more months getting over the surgery. Gradually, though I did see progress. But I could feel the bones clicking and going up and down steps became increasingly difficult. My knee was badly swollen, and the doctor indicated I just had to live with that.
 
A few months ago, I fell down a flight of steps (See post Going Down.) The projected knee replacement wasn’t going to happen for 10 years; so I was told by the doctor. I knew I wouldn’t last that long. Then along came hope.
 
The procedure must have recently been approved because Facebook is full of it. My chiropractor has been having his staff trained and the new machine purchased (or whatever they do with equipment like that). On April 24, 2018, I was the first patient to be processed. I was excited, and so were they. They had a trainer there to oversee things, and that too was comforting.
 
On the first day, the 23rd, I was given a consultation. Then, on the 24th we started the procedure. They needed to inject some dye into the knee to make sure the synovial sack didn’t leak. Actually, mine was full of fluid, so they decided to drain the fluid before putting anything else in there. As they had a very long and fairly large needle sticking into my knee, they started pulling off fluid. It didn’t hurt. I couldn’t feel anything, but my body has never responded well to people putting holes in my body. I nearly fainted when I had my ears pierced.
 
At first, I felt woozy, and so they gave me some smelling salts. That helped for a few seconds, but then I asked for some candy. I had just started to suck on the peppermint when I knew my stomach was going to erupt. I told them, but they moved rather too slowly. It was a tiny room with a lot of equipment, and five staff plus me in the big chair with the new machine. I nearly christened them all! The machine got a good dose, as did my clothes, the chair the footstool and the floor. After it was all over, they got me the garbage can. It took some minutes to clean all that up (as a biohazard!). I got a new t-shirt out of the deal and they ran my trousers through a dryer. They believed I have been a good start to their training, as they now have a lot better idea what kind of equipment needs to be available, like a barf bag!
 
Once that was all over, I got ice on my knee for 10 minutes and then was fitted with some fancy knee braces, which are my to keep for the rest of my life. I need to wear them when I’m walking or doing exercise, but not when sitting or lying down. They keep the bones separated so they don’t hit together and cause pain. The actual injection of the “magic fluid” happens tomorrow, the 26th. I will have injections once a week for five weeks and physical therapy for eight weeks. The treatment should last for about six months, and then can be repeated. Apparently Medicare will pay the full cost, which will be wonderful – and a lot cheaper and less stressful than a knee replacement. Maybe I will make it for the next 10 years!!! I’m also getting BOTH knees done, so maybe I will be able to use the stairs, hike and swim again in the near future!

One moment, I was carefully taking a step down the stairs, the next moment my head made a loud THUMP on the landing.
 
Yes, I’ve had knee surgery – to repair torn menisci and my bursitis was acting up. Going down stairs has been more difficult than going up stairs. So, as I stood at the top of the tile steps, the kind with the metal strip on the edge (to keep you from slipping), I looked over at the elevator. There were about six people waiting to get into the rather small conveyance, so I decided I could make it on the stairs.
 
In accordance with my training, bad foot went down. I held on to the handrail. Then I started to put my good foot down, and also to change my handhold. Maybe I caught my heel. I really can’t remember. But all of a sudden, I realized I was launched into the air toward the middle of the empty staircase. I desperately tried to catch myself, but my feet only landed on the edges of the steps as I tumbled forward, gaining momentum. My only conscious thought was, “Oh dear, here I go again!” I knew this wasn’t going to end well.
 
And yes, I’ve done this before – with a suitcase in the London Underground. On that unfortunate occasion I somersaulted over the suitcase and landed on my back on the landing. Those were cement stairs with metal strips embedded in the cement. HARD! SHARP! I knew I wouldn’t survive if I tensed up, so I tried to make like a rag doll. I think it helped.
 
This time, I didn’t have a suitcase. I’m not sure what happened to my coat, books and handbag. They ended up on the landing with me, but unfortunately not under me. As I landed on the stairs, I felt my shoulder hitting the last three or four, then my the top left side of my head went THUD on the landing and at last I was still and on solid ground – well the landing at least.  I had descended the 10 steps significantly more quickly than if I had walked!
 
You know the cartoon drawings where the unfortunate character gets hit in the head and the circles and stars go round and round. Well, that is pretty accurate. I had to lie still for a few seconds just to get through being stunned.
 
Immediately, a man rushed up the lower flight of stairs asking if I was all right and if I had been unconscious. I indicated “No” I hadn’t been unconscious. I was still trying to assess the state of my head, which had hit pretty hard. I may end up later in life with signs of traumatic brain injury! But for now, at least, I was thankful that I have a really hard head.
 
Suddenly another man was at my side, Dr. Kim. He is a Korean doctor who is known all over Knoxville for having set up a health clinic for the working poor. He also asked if I had been unconscious, and having determined I hadn’t been, they asked if I was hurt anywhere else. I ascertained that nothing was broken – another amazing fact. They helped me sit up and then to stand up. When I finally was on my feet I could see the face of the first man, so I said, “Hello!” They both helped me down the remaining steps, carrying my various items of clothing and books.
 
For some years now, I have bemoaned my large bone structure. Sometimes I feel like the Jolly Green Giant next to my very petite friends. I have the shoulders of a football player and very large, and apparently strong bones. For the first time in a long while, I was grateful for that.
 
They asked if someone was with me. I hesitantly said, “Yes”. Ben was waiting for me in the sanctuary, because all of this happened in church. I managed to walk down the hall and into the service, though my head was still swimming a bit and my eyes didn’t seem to focus quite right. However, after the service I felt well enough to drive home.
 
I took the rest of the day very easy with lots of ice bags and Ibuprofen. The bruising started to come out, but by Monday, I still didn’t have a black eye in spite of the bump on my head. After taking Ben to school and doing the grocery shopping, I called my chiropractor and got an appointment for later in the morning.
 
Dr. Chris, my chiropractor, as well as most of the staff were amazed that not more of me was injured. X-rays were taken, but nothing was broken. After unjamming my neck, I can turn my head more normally now. I have three huge bruises and the bump on my head, but not even any broken skin! Someone was protecting me, and I certainly am glad about that! Ben is too!
 
These events happened about a week ago, so I’ve had time to reflect on lessons learned.  First, when I have problems with my knee, take the elevator. Failing that option, go down the carpeted stairs. Second, explore the fashion options of bubble wrap. Third, remember that I’m a good Presbyterian and say, “I’m glad that’s over!”
 
(In case you don’t understand that last comment, Presbyterians believe in predestination. Many assume that is a fatalistic view of life, and that all things are predestined.)

In talking with an Iraqi refugee that is now a US citizen, we got on to the topic of honesty. I was startled to hear him say, “Americans want to hear lies, even when they know it’s a lie.  Americans would rather hear something ‘nice’ than to hear the truth.” So, when he moved to the US, he saw how people talked, and realized he would have to do the same thing to get what he wanted.
 
That statement, as I’ve reflected on it, has becoming increasingly disturbing. Is that why we only want to hear news that reflects our firmly held views? Is that why our politicians can no longer talk about compromise or even discuss issues with those of a different opinion? Do whites not want to hear about racial discrimination because they don’t believe it could be true, and don’t want to be confronted with an uncomfortable truth? Is that how we can ‘dehumanize’ others so we can abuse them without feeling guilty? And we do it all in the name of being ‘nice’.
 
It is dangerous to surround ourselves with those who are just like us. In that setting, we can continue to repeat what we think is the truth, even if it is a lie. Those who want to be acceptable to us just need to learn what lies to tell us. We get affirmation; they get on the inside. But what is the result?
 
We repress the truth, what is left? Lies, deceit, hate, discord. Is it worth it? Or should we love the truth, however it may hurt our feelings or challenge our assumptions and prejudices.

After a week of below freezing temperatures, I had occasionally run water at night to keep the pipes from freezing. I put insulated covers over my outside faucets. But then it happened. On Saturday morning, I got up and when I flushed the commode, I heard, well nothing. After the departure of the water, nothing came in. I knew I was in trouble. Sure enough, I turned on the tap and only a drizzle came out.
 
I never had this problem when I lived in Africa. In Sudan, we were lucky to get water at all and in Kenya, the compound had invested in huge water tanks to protect from water cuts. In no place that I’ve lived did it ever freeze, so frozen taps were not a consideration. Now, I had to think what to do.
 
First, I contacted my neighbors to find out if they had water. Perhaps I was not the only one, and misery loves company. However, they all had water. I alone was without.
 
Next I tried to find the number of the water company, but I needed the emergency number, and that was nowhere to be found. So, I got online, and sure enough, there was a place to report an outage. I reported.
 
My neighbor suggested that I get some old towels or blankets and put around the meter and pipes to warm them up. It was about 15°F out there, and I couldn’t really see that blankets were going to help. But, I found some old sheets and after throwing on some warm clothes, headed out to put them down the hole where the meter was. Much to my amazement, within 15 minutes of my reporting the outage, the water repair people were on the job. They had the lid off and were studying the situation.
 
Their solution was interesting to say the least. They took a “sacrificial” rag, put alcohol on it and set it alight in the hole. One had a fireproof glove, so he moved the burning rag around to warm up the pipes. He sent me in to turn on the water and then report when water started flowing. It didn’t take long. I asked if this was one of those “don’t try this at home” tricks, and they assured me it was.
 
They explained the freeze up should never have happened. Apparently the connection on the water company’s side of the meter was poorly done. He said he would report it because it should be repaired properly. I don’t think he used that term, however. I asked what I should do until then, and he said, “Run water”.
 
So, I’ve washed clothes, washed dishes, washed me and left the tap running at night until the temperatures rose. Ben and I are even more grateful than ever for warmer weather in the forecast!

China doesn’t want our recycles anymore! Why? There’s too much “dirt” (non-recyclables) mixed in. China was our biggest receiver of stuff we no longer want nor use, and if they don’t take it, likely it will end up in a landfill.
 
This item of news on NPR radio got me thinking about how recycles are handled in the various places I’ve lived.
 
In Sudan, recycling was not an issue. If you had food scraps, throw them out in the road and the local goats would eat them. If you had tin cans, throw them out in the road and the local boys would pick them up and turn them into toys. If you had paper, throw it into the road and the local goats would eat that too. However, if you had anything important written on it, you might want to shred and burn it as the local children might take it home for writing practice. Cardboard boxes were never thrown away because you can always find a use for them, and besides, you or someone you know might be moving soon. Plastic bags were the greatest nuisance, but if they blew around in the road long enough they would find a barbed wire fence and attach themselves to it, creating a bag farm. We also referred to the white plastic bags as the national bird (the white-breasted Sudanese kiis). “Kiis” is the Arabic word for plastic bag.
 
In Mogran, a small part of Khartoum, we did have garbage pick up once or twice a week. There wasn’t generally a lot for them to pick up at our house because if we threw something away, someone would likely see it in the trash and think of some use for it and take it home with them. What the house help didn’t get, the guys from the garbage truck did. I’ve seen them sorting through what they picked up to find useful things to take home. How much actually got to the dump, I don’t know. We kept our rubbish in various containers near the gate to make it easy to put our when the truck showed up. In this photo, I came home to find a water hose leaking because someone had set the rubbish on fire and burned through the hose!
 
In Kenya, the center where I lived didn’t recycle anything. It seemed a shame, but food scraps attracted unsavory elements like rats, Maribou Storks, Ibis and other unwelcomed wild life. Keeping up with plastic and tin cans and glass containers took up too much space. So, I was delighted to find that Nakumaat had set up a recycle center. When I finally remembered to put my recycles in the car and went to drop them off, I was disappointed to find only garbage there and no recycles at all. Sometimes enterprising young people would come by the homes of some of my colleagues and collect their recycles, so I often passed mine along to them to give to these needy kids who were making a small living out of our rubbish.  It was all rather unsatisfactory.
 
In England, recycling is a requirement and each county has a different set of rules about it. There is usually a sizable card describing the type of waste to be recycled, what color bin to put it in and when each thing will be collected. It takes quite a bit of studying to get it right, and woe betide you if you get it wrong! By comparison with Sudanese or American houses, English houses are quite small and compact. However, no matter how small your kitchen, you must make room for three or four recycle containers.  Food waste gets put in one, paper in another, plastic in another and metal in yet another one or two. Glass must be separated and so should the newspapers! Pick up schedules vary greatly, so it helps to have a space outside to keep some of it while waiting for it to be collected.
 
So, when I arrived in the US and was offered a recycle bin, I said “Yes”. When I got one huge brown bin and instructions to put all recycles in there (except food), I was delighted. How kind of the company to separate it for me. They collect it every two weeks, and it fits quite nicely in my garage. For the multitude of plastic bags that accumulate, the grocery stores often have a bin to shove those into. I can bury my food scraps in the garden and fertilize my plants. I actually got some volunteer tomatoes that way. It is all so easy by comparison to England. Of course, it is hard to beat the “throw it in the road” of Sudan, but it certainly is better than the “we don’t do that” of Kenya.
 
Yes, Americans are truly spoiled and just don’t know it. So, let’s join together and clean up our act so that China will actually take our rubbish. Maybe they will find a wonderful use for it and sell it back to us in another form.

I was tucked up in my bed and sleeping peacefully until 12:45 am. Then I heard “chirp” and then about 30 seconds later, “chirp”.  I tried my best to ignore it, but about the time I thought I could go back to sleep, “chirp”. No, that was NOT going to work.
 
Yes, we have all experienced it, the smoke alarm battery was giving up the ghost. Of course that event NEVER happens at a reasonable hour, but always in the night.
 
I began casting about in my mind to see if I could think of any object in my house with a 9V battery that I could use for the smoke alarm until morning. Nothing. I had no new ones, no used ones, nothing. What to do?
 
The step stool was too short for me to reach the alarm, so I had to disarm the alarm system and get the ladder out of the garage. I took the battery out in hopes that would stop its chirping. “Chirp” UGH!
 
Just that morning, I had passed by the battery store and thought I needed to stock up, but I had decided that I could do that later. I was embarrassingly unprepared!
 
That is how I ended up driving to the nearby Walmart at 1:00 in the morning. I thought I would be the only customer there with the one checkout person. But no, there is a whole world out there that I had no idea about. The parking lot was full, at least near the doors. There were people walking in and out as if it was 1:00 pm. I found the batteries and had to stand in a queue to check out. Who would have thought!?!
 
As I stood there, someone spoke to me. I looked more closely at the lady and realized she had been one of the caregivers for my mother in the assisted living facility she lived in for several years before she passed away. I greeted the lady and she was surprised that I remembered her. I explained why I was there, and asked why she was there. She had just finished her shift and that was when she could get out. Apparently there are a lot of people like that! Who knew?
 
I purchased my batteries and headed home. Ben never stirred. I put the battery in one way, “Chirp” So, I turned it over and put it in the other way. “Chirp” I turned it over again and pushed a little harder. “Chirp” Finally, I turned the battery around and closed the cover. Finally there was silence!
 
By then, of course, I was wide-awake, so I got a snack and some buttermilk and settled down with my book. After half an hour, I managed to go to sleep again.
 
What did I learn from this experience? 1) Lots of people are out shopping in the early hours of the morning. 2) When that prompting comes to stock up on something, follow up on it, or you may be one of those people shopping at Walmart in the early hours of the morning!

In one of my less sane moments, I decided to sponsor a young man to come to the US to spend his senior year of high school in preparation for attending a US university. I’ve known this young man, Ben, mostly through his mother who worked with me in Africa. Ben has a sister on scholarship at a prestigious university, and we have learned from her where the shortfalls in her previous education were. Therefore, we thought it would be great to help Ben by-pass these obstacles. What we didn’t realize was that we were going to fall into a few holes ourselves!
 
To listen to some politicians, you would think the world is flooding our borders without so much as saying “Howdy”! Well, if they come in legally, that simply isn’t true, at least not from my experience.
 
We began this process in early March. I went to my estate attorney and while revising my will, asked him to help provide an acceptable guardianship letter for me to look after Ben while he is in the US. Apparently that got pretty complicated as it took about four weeks to obtain the document, and at considerable cost.
 
While talking with the woman who was creating this document, she suggested that I contact the central office of the school system to see if the document was acceptable, and also to apply for the needed visa. Once I had the guardianship letter, I wrote and asked the “visa guru” at the central office if it was acceptable. That is when I learned that unless I went through the court system and actually legally took Ben on, I was subject to paying the full cost of his tuition. All the property taxes and other taxes I pay here count for nothing if Ben doesn’t “belong to me”. We weren’t even sure what country we would have to have the judge adjudicate such a decision, so we opted out of that. Thus, I’m stuck with paying nearly $10,000 for this privilege. Still, I look on it as an investment, and I think a good one. So, we proceeded.
 
I went to see the “visa guru”, and together we completed the F-1 visa application. Of course he had to have evidence that I could afford to pay the tuition, food, clothing, activities, fees. He was pondering how much Ben might eat, and asked me. I said, “Do you have children?” His reply was “Oh-h-h.” We agreed on an amount that I needed to show by bank statements, etc.
 
Finally the application was complete and he pressed “Submit”. The website said it had been submitted and accepted. The next thing was that Ben’s parents should hear from the American embassy that he was cleared for a visa. That was a month ago, maybe six weeks. There is still no word from the embassy. This kid is not on a banned country list, so I’m not sure what the hold up is. Further information was that although the school system had applied for four F-1 visas, no students had ever come. There’s a problem somewhere.
 
The “visa guru” assured me that Ben would NOT be allowed to graduate from Bearden, despite my paying the tuition. I wasn’t clear on why that might be, but he seemed very definite. He encouraged me to contact the Curriculum and Instruction people, which I eventually did. If Ben could not graduate from here, we were running into some significant problems.  I’ll go into those in a separate blog post, but let us just say, graduation was a deal breaker.
 
In talking with the Curriculum and Instruction lady, I learned that YES, he COULD graduate. She had already checked on his school (5th best in Kenya), and if we brought his transcript, they would give him all the credits they could for the work he had done. It might require him to do summer school to get in the extra credits that are required here, but he was well on the way to having everything he needed. I had his first two years of secondary school and sent that to her immediately! What great news!!!
 
In Kenya, Ben’s parents are currently applying for the visa from their end. We hope this will break the silence from the US embassy. I’ve sent another letter assuring them of my financial viability, my intentions to look after him and even a photo of his room. Ben’s school has given them a letter permitting him to transfer schools. So, we wait with eager anticipation for the next move.
 
So, just to say, in case you are one of those people who think people just waltz into the US on a whim, think again. It takes months of paperwork to get folks here. That is my experience, and as they say, “That’s my story, and I’m sticking to it!”

 
I’ve now been in the USA for three whole months! It has been exciting, challenging, confusing and fun. I should also say that I’m now “officially old”, having had my 65th birthday some time back. That has certain implications here in the US, namely Social Security and Medicare. These are two social programs that are supposed to aid the elderly, but I’m beginning to think that the process to enroll in these programs is really more of an IQ test to see if you still have enough wits about you to qualify you to get older.
 
Social Security offers people of my generation the option of retiring, not at 65, but at 66. The Social Security Administration is trying to save some money, since the government has already spent what they took from my paychecks over the last 40 years. Anyway, they will start paying me when I officially retire, but if I wait to retire until I’m 70, they will pay me quite a bit more. I guess they figure I won’t likely live as long after 70, and so it balances out. So, I have to decide when I want to start getting this assistance. Will I live as long as my mother did, nearly 93, and thus taking more money from age 70 onwards would be a good deal? Or, will I be like most of my recent ancestors and only live into my 70’s? In this second case case, I should start getting my money sooner so I can enjoy it. But who is to know?
 
Fortunately, I have some more months to think about the Social Security conundrum, so I will move on to the Medicare part of my tale.
 
Medicare, as the name suggests, is to help elderly people with their medical expenses. The first decision one has to make is whether to sign up for “original Medicare” or one of the many “Medicare Advantage” plans. There are pros and cons to each choice. Basically, there are three parts to Medicare: hospitalization (Part A), non-hospital medical costs (Part B) and prescription drugs {Part D). If you go the “original” route, then it is imperative that one apply for Part A at least. Part B is somewhat optional, provided you are still employed and covered by health insurance through your employer. However, my employer recommended going on to Medicare now, even before I retire, because it would be cheaper. But I digress. The “Advantage” plans cover Parts B and D together and so it is called Part C. (I don’t explain it, I just report it.)
 
My doctor’s office had already warned me that there was only one Advantage Plan that they would accept, and I had to be SURE to have my doctor’s name on the card they sent me. Apparently, regardless of what you tell them, the Advantage plan puts down the name of whatever doctor they happen to think of at the time. Until you have YOUR doctor’s name, s/he can’t see you. Also, whenever you need to see a specialist, you have to go through your primary care doctor for a referral. There is also a limit as to which doctors you can go to, presumably so that the plan can manage the costs more effectively.
 
My employer strongly suggested that I use the ‘original’ Medicare plan. Since they have worked with thousands of retirees, I figured they had the experience so I should take their advice. They also gave me the name of a broker, a person who would be able to look at my situation and advise me on the best plan for my situation. That was a real blessing. I called her and she is nice and knowledgeable.
 
So, while I’m collecting all this information, I have to send in the original application to Medicare, because you have to get on the list. In my confusion, I signed up for ONLY Part A. That part is “free”. However, as I worked through the process, I decided I also needed Parts B and D. With the help of my broker, I identified, and eventually signed up with two different insurance companies, one for Part B and another for Part D. As the year was ending, and all of this was going into effect on January 1, I realized I still wasn’t signed up for Medicare Part B. Oops.
 
My employer needed to know I had insurance coverage before they stopped their insurance, and I finally got around to sending that after Christmas. My paperwork was in such a mess that I could scarcely find the insurance numbers I needed, but eventually they turned up in a basket full of papers. (I put all my papers in one basket to try to corral them so at least I would have an idea where they were. I’m happy to report that I have now put them in a filing cabinet.)
 
In order for me, as an employed person, to sign up for Medicare Part B, I had to have a form completed by my employer. As the year came to a close, I realized I needed that form completed. I also talked with my broker, who advised me to go on to the Medicare website and get signed up there. I found a form that I needed to complete to request Part B. I completed the form, signed it, scanned it and sent it to my employer. I asked them for the form they needed to complete to give to Medicare. Within a short time, the completed form was returned to me.
 
Feeling quite pleased with myself, I sent both completed forms to my Medicare contact, who, of course, was on leave over the holidays. On the first working day after the new year, she phoned me. It seems that once the first application (for Part A) goes in and is processed, the whole thing goes to another office. She could no longer help me. I had to take these two completed forms to my local Social Security office and turn them in there. Furthermore, I needed to do that quickly, like today or tomorrow! I had no idea where the Social Security Office is in Knoxville, but I knew I could Google that.
 
Now this is the reason for the long introduction. I looked online and indeed the Social Security Office is just 1.5 miles from my house.  I grabbed the forms and set off. My first clue that this was going to take longer than 10 minutes was the lack of parking spaces available. Having finally found a place to leave my car, I wandered into the office, and was informed that I should sign in on the electronic machine at the entrance.  Once I had identified myself, I had to indicate why I was there. None of the choices seemed applicable, so I chose “Other”. Having signed in, I was given a ticket with O281 on it. The “O” was for “Other”. The room was FULL, and there I was with nothing to do.
 
I downloaded some games on my phone and began to entertain myself, while keeping an ear open for my number to be called. There are specialists in the various departments, but I’m not sure that anyone specialized in “Other”.  I never heard my number called, but eventually saw there was an electronic board that told you which numbers were being called and where to go. At the bottom of the screen it said: PAST.  My number was on there! I waited for it to come around again, and sure enough, it said “Desk 13”. So, I toddled off to Desk 13.
 
The guy at Desk 13 said, “I didn’t call you.”
 
I explained that while I hadn’t heard my number called, the board said “Past: O281”.
 
He looked me up on his computer, and when he saw the two forms, he invited me to sit down. He said, “Do you just need to hand in these forms?”
 
“Yes,” I answered.
 
So, he kindly took them and I was free to go. I wonder if I could have done that half an hour earlier? I’ll never know. But the next time I have to go there, I’ll bring my book.
 
About 10 days after handing in the forms, I got a letter from Social Security. In it was one of the forms (the one from my employer) and a Post It note saying it needed to be corrected. One of the dates was not correct. I needed to get the company to update that and then return the completed to Social Security. UGH! Will I ever see the end of this process? In the meantime, I’m pretending that all is well and seeing doctors and having medical tests as if all were in place. Let’s hope this cavalier attitude will NOT come back to haunt me!

I learned a valuable lesson recently – know how to get back to where you started before you start.
 
Of course, I thought I knew where I was, but it proved to be a fallacy. I was staying in our organization’s guest accommodations during some meetings in Orlando. I took a quick trip down to south Florida to visit friends, 3 hours south of Orlando. They rightly told me to return to Orlando on the Florida Turnpike and I would arrive in 3 hours. I did that and in 3 hours, I was indeed back in Orlando. The problem was, I didn’t know how to get back to where I was staying from the Turnpike.
 
My initial mistake was thinking that the Turnpike and Highway 417 were one in the same. They are both Toll roads, and have green signs. To my cost, I learned they are NOT the same. So, having arrived just after dark, I found myself northwest of Orlando. I decided to take the first available exit, and stopped at the tollbooth to ask. They had no idea where I was supposed to be, so advised me to turn around and head the other way. I did, but still on the toll road.
 
Fortunately, my phone had started asking me to talk to it, and since I have been unable to set it so that I don’t have to, it was a good opportunity to start talking. I asked it to call the person in charge of the course, named Jo. I then asked Jo where I needed to go. It was during that discussion that I realized I was confused about the Turnpike and Highway 417. Anyway, she gave me instructions as best she could, given she wasn’t sure where I was exactly. I got to the specified exit, and found a gas/petrol station. While filling up, I called her again. After some discussions, and asking directions from the clerk at the gas station, I headed east on a road that should take me to Narcoosee Road. He thought it would take about 15 minutes to get there. There was a light and the street was marked.
 
After what seemed an eternity, I ran out of lights and found myself driving along a very dark road. It felt like I was beside a lake, which was probably Kissimmee. After some time, I saw a sheriff’s car in the median. I managed to do a U-turn a bit further down, and came back to the sheriff. My car was quite low, and he couldn’t see that I had pulled up beside him. I couldn’t find the horn, so finally got out of the car and picked my way through the burrs. The sheriff was working on his computer quite intently. I knocked on his window, and that gave him a start. He looked at me for a long moment and then put down the window. I explained that I was lost, and he directed me to where I needed to go – in fact the last light I had passed.
 
Finally on Narcoosee, it was supposed to be 3-4 miles. That is actually about 10 miles. Things are much further in the dark. I was beginning to despair that I would ever see my things again, but after much stress and anxiety, I did manage to get “home”. I felt like kissing the ground! My greatest joy was that I was being picked up and taken to the airport the next morning, so there was little chance that I would get lost again! Jo was also relieved, that after monitoring my two hours of wandering about Orlando, her little duckling had at last reached home.