Getting Your Hands on a Compass

I needed to get to the rendezvous point.

I knew where it was, but I had no idea where I was.

You have to remember this was long before GPS and cellphones.  Getting your hands on a compass was considered a stroke of luck.

On a clear night, you could tell where north was.  I knew where West was, because I'd seen the sun go down.  Problem was that the RP was at the Four Corners, just across the border in a friendly country--at least, they were friendly when we started this--and that was north northwest.  That's harder to stay true to.

Daylight was beginning to stir by the time I reached the light source.

It was a large parking lot.  Looked like acres of cars and small trucks; each one just as uninteresting as the one next to it.

Acre after acre of utilitarian design:  taste by committee.

I never felt more American.

Why would somebody be stockpiling all these vehicles?

There was a factory somewhere close.

And security.

And party faithful.

Time to go shopping.