Pilsner Urquell

I'm lost the moment I leave the room.

No matter what turn I take it's the wrong turn, the turn I hadn't meant to take even though I thought it the right turn at the time.

Counter-intuition is wrong also and doesn't work the way I thought it might, even after I've proven to myself that I've taken the wrong turn and turned around to re-trace my steps in the hopes of correcting the error in my route.

At a certain point I find that the wrong turn has compounded beyond my ability to correct it, that I have simply gone too far for too long a time to hope to arrive at the place I'd designated as my destination when I first left the room.

Somewhat suddenly and often out of nowhere, as if I'd opened randomly to pg. 174 of The Eyewitness Travel Guide to Prague, I find myself in a procession led by cavalry, followed by mounted drummers, trumpeters and soldiers and Bohemian lords.

Arriving then at the designated destination, as I always seem to do, always takes me by surprise, a compensatory joy in a journey otherwise comprised of wrong turns.