Setting: Times Square, daylight, among hundreds of people walking in all directions, right in front of the building which housed MTV’s Total Request Live studio.

It seemed like a fine day in New York. It hadn’t rained all week. Now, our program instructor, Bobby, was nice enough to try to get us over to see TRL before we had to meet to go to a Broadway play (excitement!) with the rest of the workshop groups. Unfortunately, the windows of TRL were dark, and except for a few illustrations of people declaring that music is life, the large windows were void of any sign of it being in use. So we stood there for about ten minutes, and then started to head back. One of my group mates started grumbling.

“Man, what a rip off” he said, “We even came here before.” He was citing an earlier instance where we’d come close to TRL, but he was mistaken. We’d only gotten to the center of the Square; this was our first time standing below TRL’s hallowed windows.

“Nah, man,” I said, still facing TRL as the group started back in the direction we’d come. I turned back and pointed, “We only got that far earlier.”

I turned back around to see if he was listening, but he’d disappeared. I shrugged and turned back to follow the group, but they’d disappeared too, melted into the throngs of people. When I took a few steps in the direction they’d all been going but still didn’t catch up, I began to worry.

I flowed with the river of people, coming to a crosswalk and letting the current tug me to the other side of the street. I constantly searched for the familiar, brown faces of my island comrades. A tall black man stood to my left, shouting about something or other. My mind was filled with a deep calm, though my heart was racing, and I focused on one thing: find the group.

I turned back and re-crossed the street, but my group wasn’t there. They really had moved on, and I was lost at sea, directionless in the waves of people.

So I crossed the street again, seeking the familiar islander faces of my workshop group, any workshop group. In my desperation, my mind shouted in despair: “Why are they all so white?” I couldn’t see anyone who even vaguely resembled an islander. Then:

I caught sight of a group of several short girls hanging a right around a corner. My heart’s pace quickened. Could those be some island girls? Could I be saved? I followed without hesitation. They were, after all, walking in what must have been the right direction.

When I finally got close to them, my mind sighed in relief. I knew I was found. There was another familiar program instructor, Scott, whose workshop shared a bus with mine. I walked up to him and told him sheepishly:

“Scott, I lost Bobby.”

“You lost Bobby,” he repeated. “All right.” Then he whipped out his cell phone. I’m pretty sure he called my now-frantic program instructor, who after a headcount they all were required to conduct frequently, had discovered that one of his students was lost in one of the most busiest parts of one of the biggest cities in the U.S. Bobby had probably called every PI in the area, asking if they’d found me, and would probably have been ecstatic that Scott had.

After various phone calls Scott told me to stick with his group until we met up with Bobby. As luck would have it, they were right across the street, lined up against the wall of the theater we were supposed to be heading to. Scott dropped me off with Bobby and went to line his group up behind my group.

“Oh my God, Diliaur, where’d you go?” asked one Spanish girl, Jenny. “You were there, and then you weren’t.”

“Yeah,” I smiled, and shrugged. I was still a bit in shock.

Ke’ala, a fellow Palauan, later told me that she just looked away for a second and then I was gone, and it freaked. Her. Out. She had been assigned by our Palauan Close Up teacher, Daisy, to watch me and make sure I didn’t get lost as I had a tendency to lag behind and take pictures. Oops.

Bobby, the PI, gave me a hug, then led me into the corridor (there was a sort of roof structure over the walkways in a lot of parts of Times Square, which made everything look like it was under construction) and away from the street. He talked for a bit, saying things like, “Thank God you’re okay, I was frantic,” and “You’re smart, though, I knew you’d find your way back. You know the name of the theater, right?” I didn’t. “Or you know the name of the play; you would’ve asked someone where it was being shown.”

Frankly, I don’t know if I would have been that brilliant. Perhaps if I had remained lost and gotten absolutely desperate I would have thought of it, but thank goodness it had only been ten scary minutes and luck let me wander in the right direction until I stumbled upon Scott’s group.

“It was scary, though, wasn’t it.”

I didn’t really answer anything. His hand stayed on my shoulder for awhile, as if to make sure that I really was standing there and wasn’t still wandering the streets of a strange city.

I think Bobby talking so much and asking me all those questions was a way for him to do two things: to make sure that I was all right, and to convince himself that I really was all right. I think I may have scared him witless.

“Do you have your ticket?” Bobby asked, finally.

I shook my head no, and he handed it to me. I studied it, leaning against the wall. Found.