When I visit my dad in Stockholm, I invariably get lost, but if can get to to the top of a hill, I can reorient myself when I find Hogalid Kyrka on the skyline.
The towers can tell you where you are. If I’m in Liljeholm, I look northeast, and the clock tower is behind the church, the vented one in front. If the clock tower completely blocks the view of the other, and the business end of the church goes the other way, I’ve gotten off the T-bana at the wrong stop, and I’m in Kungsholm. Again.
Oh, well. There’s a neat fabric store in Marieberg if I go straight south. See, I meant to do that.
I know where I am.
I grew up looking at towers–playing on the roof in Brooklyn Heights, in the park with the good swings at the end of Pierrepont Street, walking with Dad on the Promenade.
But my father left New York for Sweden twenty years ago, and I haven’t been back, and now I am afraid to visit, because I think I would get lost.