So I'm standing in front of a Taco Bell on Santa Monica Boulevard, eating my lunch and reading a newspaper through the Plexiglas on the dispenser. One of my rules is that if you're eating at Taco Bell, a quarter for the paper is a luxury.

Suddenly, a sleek black convertible pulls up to the curb and two very angular, very blonde men begin speaking to me in thick German accents.

"Excuse us, please. Can you tell us how to get to... the 10?"

"Sure. Just continue down Santa Monica and take the 405 south--"

"South? We want to go north."

"Then you've got a problem. The 10 is east/west."

They look at least other for a moment, then the passenger looks at the map he's got open in front of him.

"Maybe the 110?" I say.

"The 110?"

"Or 101."

They blink in the bright sunlight.

"Malibu," says one.

"Santa Barbara," says the other.

"Ah," I say, "The 1."

"The 1?"

"The 1. Pacific Coast Highway."

"Coast Highway!" they both say.

"Just turn around and head to the water. Take a right on Ocean and a left on California."

"Thank you," they say. "Thank you." And they speed off.

And I'm sure the first thing they said to each other after driving off was, "Man, he looked nothing like David Hasselhoff."