I’ve never been the world’s best driver. Or navigator. Or the calmest under pressure. I am really good at sitting in the passenger seat, talking to the driver and singing really loudly to the car radio. Unfortunately, those last three talents aren’t exactly essential to safe driving. And when you’re the one driving, they’re actually detrimental: You can’t sit in the passenger seat and drive, you shouldn’t be talking to yourself and for the sake of everyone else in the car, you shouldn’t sing as loudly and off-key as I do.

So, naturally, I found myself in the world’s hardest place to navigate—downtown San Diego. That might be a bit of an exaggeration, but as a non-native whose directions are based off landmarks such as “the tree with the hole in it” and “the house with the red door,” driving through downtown requires a compass, a GPS and several maps to cross-reference. And of course, someone to figure them all out for me.

I was also there at the worst possible time—about 2 a.m. on Friday, when all the clubs had a constant flow of girls in towering stilettos tottering in and out of buildings and crossing every one-way street in sight, followed by every guy who would look through the car windows to see me and my friend cowering in our seats behind locked doors.

It seemed like a simple task. We were picking up a friend from the train station a little after 1:30 a.m. and to take him back to our apartments. My friend and I left early and arrived with plenty of time. From there, paranoia told us it would be better to circle around the two-block radius surrounding the train station than park somewhere along the road. We were convinced if we parked and stayed still, we would end up surrounded by a group of scary- looking West Coast mobsters and inspire the next episode of CSI. (Some might say we have slightly overactive imaginations, but I say we’re just cautious).

Once the train finally arrived and our friend got in the car, we headed back toward campus on what we thought would be a very straightforward journey. But on our way downtown, we managed to miss the many one-way streets in the area and any signs directing us to the freeway. Needless to say,our trip to find the freeway ended up taking us so far south that we were pretty sure we were about to hit the Mexican border.

Finally, we found a freeway and hopped on, getting back on track as our GPS realized where we were and how to get us back to campus. After switching to second freeway, we hit a traffic accident, freaking out about what may have causeda complete stand-still on the freeway at 2:30 in the morning. After passing it, we finally found ourselves on familiar territory, traveling in the I-8 with the sweet realization we were actually going to make it back from our travels alive and without any CSI investigators.

At that point, (almost 3 in the morning,) we’d driven around downtown for about an hour, of which I’d spent about three- fourths of that hyperventilating and trying to get the CSI theme song out of my head. We saw the campus and we knew we were about to arrive home safe and sound. Less than two minutes later, we found ourselves at a DUI checkpoint right down the street from our apartment, which terrified me. I’ve always been the kind of person who will not speed, not drink, and who makes sure all my lights and registration are updated and working. I still break out in a cold sweat whenever I see a cop on the road. I’m always convinced there’s something I’ve done wrong, and I’ll be pulled over, given a ticket and arrested for something I’m completely clueless about.

After making it through the checkpoint, trying to steady my breathing and my heart rate after parking the car, I managed to make it up to my room and collapse on my bed.

Needless to say, I won’t be driving downtown anytime soon. Nor will I be watching any episodes of CSI; I think it causes more trouble than it’s worth.

-Bree Lutjens is a public relations sophomore.