By Diana Estill

By the time he'd regained his composure, the sun had set.

Traveling by twilight, we encountered the first of several "roundabouts" -- a vehicular intersection where cars circle at high speeds and nobody knows where they're going. We missed the bob-truck, veered into the right lane (which was the wrong one) and narrowly completed our connection.

From there we followed a two-lane road that had no streetlights, sidewalks or shoulders. This left us competing for pavement alongside pedestrians, dogs and overgrown bougainvilleas.

"If we ever find this place," said my husband, "I'm parking this car and we're staying put for the rest of the week."

I wanted to say something positive, but I couldn't. My intestines had a stranglehold on my esophagus.

After two passes, we found our destination hidden behind a row of flowering hedges. I looked at my mate and said, "I don't care if we have to live on our stash of airline pretzels and peanuts. I'm not getting back out there on that street."

But fear couldn't keep us in a death-grip forever. Soon we realized we had to make a choice. Either persist or perish. So two days later, under threat of starvation, we ventured past our hotel lobby and out into the parking lot. "Other people do this," I said peering out at Death Road. "We can, too!"

My husband nodded in agreement.

Just then, another Bean-mobile whipped into the hotel driveway and an ashen-faced couple spilled out from it. They stood, gazing heavenward and making the sign of the cross.

I hoped they'd packed plenty of peanuts.

Diana Estill is a freelance writer and humorist living in Texas. To read more of her columns, visit www.DianaEstill.com

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