I was pulling my baggage (one light the other heavy with only one wheel remaining) in circles outside of the ferry terminal in Poole, searching for the train station. A woman on the street below had sweetly given me precise, incorrect directions and then watched me struggle the wrong way. (I had already experienced some of the local Monty Pythonish antics toward Americans-but did not understand what was happening at the time.)

I followed her directions and then found I was back at the beginning. I stood and carefully removed my trench coat, folded it, and tucked it into a bag. I looked around at the same three choices I'd started with. I chose the one that seemed definitely wrong, the only one I had yet to try. Bumping the bags up over curbs into my already bruised ankle. No, an earnest gentleman told me. I must turn around.

Back to the circle. Once I realized I was going in circles I calmed. Hadn't I been practicing this since I arrived in Paris? Overwhelmed my first full day, I'd slowly repeated a circular route of an area that drew me, passing under the room where Chopin had died several times. I later did the same on small peninsulas on the beach, surrounded by running rivulets. Inside the Notre Dame Cathedrale in Bayeux.

I found you may also make the same circle, but change direction. Things look very different approached from the other perspective, though it's the very same path.

I did finally breakaway from the demoralizing circle in Poole. And though even it was not the last circle, I am now in Ascot, and quite content.