I used to think I was a good driver. Then, last Tuesday, I came to question what had before seemed an innate ability. It took me an hour-and-a-half to find my way from Exit 18 of the Massachusetts Turnpike to 13 Lansdowne St., a scant few miles away. The more I think about it, however, the less I blame myself for this absurd waste of time, and the more I blame the city of Boston, the Commonwealth of Massachusetts and Bostonians in general.I don't mean to vilify an entire regional grouping of hard-working, patriotic Americans, but I think it is safe to say that, the majority of these otherwise fantastic people have no idea where anything is. I mean, how else can you explain a native Bostonian responding to my asking where Lansdowne Street is - at the time, three blocks away - with, "Ummm . pop a U-ey, go a few blocks, and it's a left and a right."

Maybe these vague bits and pieces of directions mean something somewhere on this planet, but where I'm from, those kind of directions are usually interpreted by the less naive citizen as, "I have some sense of where it is, but I am much to lazy to tell you."

It seems that to the average Bostonian, actually leading someone to his destination is not the most important part of the response to a confused out-of-town driver. I once asked someone how to get back to Waltham from some other remote Boston suburb. The man kindly responded that Brandeis' location was called "Walthaaam," and not what I had mistakenly said, "Walthum." After correcting my inexcusable mistake, he very helpfully gave me completely useless directions; I guess I was asking for it.

Remembering that day, I am now considering the possibility that all those Bostonians I asked where Lansdowne Street was -- all within a five-block radius of it -- who had no idea where it was, had an alternative motive in leading me astray. More and more, I ask myself, "Was it my friend's New York license plate that made them want to give me bad directions? Are they that bitter?" I think so.

I've done better with directions when driving with my own New Jersey plates. I guess I've fooled them into believing New Jersey is a different state from New York. Everyone knows there are no Yankees fans in Jersey. But, I nevertheless have gotten to my destination with a little more ease when Bostonians can separate my identity from the many failures of their home team.
On three separate occasions, I have indeed found my way with a little help from the locals. Of course, on each of these Massachusetts driving adventures, the kind people who answered my difficult driving queries, such as, "Do you know where Blockbuster is?" or "Could you tell me how to get to the Mass Pike?" tried very hard to explain how to guide my car to these destinations, but in the end, all three decided it would be easier to lead me by letting me follow their own cars.

I am certainly thankful for the magnanimity of Massachusetts residents, but I have never been to a place where people have thought it easier to put their own lives on hold for a minute, and in one case, half an hour, just so they don't have to give directions.

The kindest of the three whom I followed to wherever I was heading was a postman, who led me back to Brandeis after I had gone astray. He had started to give me some pretty decent directions when the whole explanation came down crashing. "You'll see a big sign for the Mass Pike as you drive, which you can't miss," he told me, and I listened intently, making a mental note not to forget the Pike. "Ignore it! Pretend it doesn't exist, and go right by it!" I knew this was going to get ugly. The postman tried to regroup, but to no avail. He decided to take a lunch break and spend half of it leading me home.

I thought to myself, "what a damn nice guy." But, let's face it. The man just couldn't give directions if his life depended on it. Luckily, Bostonians and residents of greater Boston are some of the nicest people I've ever encountered on the East Coast, and whatever direction-giving deficiencies they may have, they will do what they can to get you where you're going.

Bad directions, like bad baseball, are a part of the culture of this region, and those of us not from this region should really just accept it. I have come to the conclusion that bad directions in Boston are like bad food in England: One must appreciate it, if one wants to understand the place. When a Bostonian responds to your request for directions to the nearest gas station with, "turn left at the house with the shattered window two blocks and a left up the street," accept it as part of a well-rounded Brandeis education. We are here to learn more than science.

- Matthew Bettinger '05 submits a column to the Justice