Living in a new place, it's hard to get acquainted without feeling overwhelmed. A trip to the DMV can take days of planning, trying to build the confidence to make the thirty mile journey, find parking and then fill out unfamiliar paperwork.
A grocery store shopping trip could turn into an exhibition, walking mindlessly up and down the aisles to find pickled roasted red peppers that aren't conveniently listed on one of the locator signs.
Finding the courage to venture more than a few short miles from my apartment was difficult at first and I was stubbornly determined to relinquish the attachment I had to my GPS. This is, after all, New Hampshire, not Syracuse. I did not have to worry about accidentally ending up in a not-so-great part of town, where I might encounter less-than-friendly people. I doubted that people in New Hampshire had heard of turf wars or RICO busts, let alone seen the aftermath of one.
For me, putting my GPS in my glove compartment was not only a test on my limited sense of direction, but on my driving anxiety as well. Before embarking on any type of trip, whether it be four hours or ten minutes away, I'd print out the most direct route, as well as two alternatives. I needed the list of directions, the street view and the actual map. I'd mentally prepare myself, literally visualizing every turn I would make, writing out directions in abbreviated form on a Post-it to stick on my steering wheel lest my printed list get blown out the window of my car. I was, and still can be, the definition of a paranoid driver.
But letting go of that anxiety and letting myself experience a place for what it is, without a purpose in mind? I'd never done that before.
So I started letting myself get lost, choosing a direction to set out in, making turns down rambling dirt roads to see the place I'm now calling my town. And if my stomach clenched at the thought of not being able to retrace my steps in a heavily wooded area and end up stranded without GPS or cell service with the threat of bears and moose and all other types of scary woodland creatures that could attack me at any moment, well, I'd just have to get over it.
The first few times, it didn't work out the way I planned. I drove through Plainfield, turned off on a dirt road that promised a "scenic drive" and got caught in a downpour, tires slicing into the mud to turn around with the slight fear of ending up stuck in a ditch (not all winding mountain roads in New England believe in guardrails). Or, when I decided to try to find the Hillbilly Flea Market in Bridgewater and nearly had an unfortunate encounter with another car on a narrow bridge.
There were, however, moments of great enlightenment. Like learning that in Vermont, it is legal to pass someone on a double yellow-lined single-laned portion of Route 4.
My coworkers had been great in suggesting places for me to go, cafes in Hanover or produce providers in White River Junction. But as much as I appreciated, and enjoyed, their recommendations, I had to "discover" the Upper Valley for myself.
I needed to find the roadside vegetable stands and barnyard bookstores. The used furniture stores and yarn shops. The best places for maple sugar candy and library's with perfect rocking chairs.
I didn't find my favorite place in my college town through careful planning with exact destinations in mind. The nondescript used bookstore on Utica Street I found on my own prerogative and the calm of Tim Horton's at 3 a.m. had been an amazing accidental discovery. In "finding" those special places, I became better-attached to my college town, beyond the guise of popular bars and cheapest gas station beer.
And here, I've needed to do the same. Getting lost on a darkened road at 11:30 at night may be terrifying, but I have to learn to be comfortable being scared in Lebanon, New Hampshire.
I have to learn to feel affection for the town I'm now calling my own.
