We were hopelessly lost on the back roads of Mexico, destined to roam aimlessly before being forced to eke out a living selling papayas on a street in Guatemala.
At least, that was my wife's belief as she asked a question that, considering all the years we've been married, should have never passed her lips: "Why don't you ask for directions?"
Really, she should know better than that.
For one, although my Spanish is serviceable, computing complicated directions in a second language is often beyond me and selling fruit in Guatemala might end up being one of the better options facing us after a misinterpretation. (I was sure he said, "Take the first left and then turn right at Belize.")
This isn't just a language issue. Even at home, I will ask for directions only when all other options have been exhausted and bedding down for the night in a Bates-like motel seems imminent.
I have been known to pass service stations, convenience stores and even people holding signs saying, "Free directions," while searching fruitlessly for some address that may or may not have been copied down wrong.
This isn't another one of those male idiosyncrasies that drives my wife crazy, such as hanging toilet paper the "wrong" way.
Like most males, I am genetically programmed to drive without seeking directions from another human being, regardless of how far off course I have wandered or how many "this road not on any maps" signs pop up.
This aversion to ask for directions is in our DNA, hard-wired over the millenniums, born in our cave-dwelling days when asking anyone for help was considered a sign of weakness and usually met with a club to the head. It's a known fact that the Neanderthals disappeared not because of an undersized cranium as many believe, but because they stopped too many times to ask for directions.
In other words, we can't help it any more than we can resist the urge to leave a toilet seat up or change TV channels frequently.
But in my case, it goes well beyond that. I not only avoid seeking directions from human beings – unless we come across a kid playing a banjo – but will consult a GPS only when all hope seems lost.
To me, the GPS not only seems like cheating, but like asking directions, it sucks the life out of one of driving's great attractions.
Hitting the open road is all about the sense of adventure, enjoying the journey as much as the destination – even if the journey takes twice as long as it should have and takes you into neighbourhoods that look as if they're inhabited by extras from The Walking Dead.
On our recent Mexico trip, for example, we happened across a charming village with a great little restaurant in our unplanned, extended search for Mayan ruins. If I'd asked for directions, I told my wife, we'd be eating bad, overpriced tacos in a tourist trap.
Judging by the glare that invoked, I guess I should have known after all the years we've been married not to say something like that.
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