I possess no sense of direction. It doesn't matter if I'm walking down Lexington Avenue in New York City -- which is wide and clearly marked with numbered side streets that are just far enough away that I have to squint -- or ambling along Lake Michigan in Chicago trying to remember if I live north or south of where I'm standing.

It doesn't matter if I'm careening down a semi-paved road out in King George, Va., with directions that include the words "turn by the big oak" in an older forest of trees as I quickly scan the passing leaves and hope that the renowned big oak is somehow obviously outstanding.

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