When I was around 56, I encountered an alien.

She looked human. She drove a big old American car like a human. But she revealed an out-of-world perspective that was as different from mine as silicon is from carbon.

I was in North Berkeley that morning, as usual, walking from my house to the BART station. When she pulled over to the curb I was heading south on Sacramento Street, near Cedar, and she was driving north.

“Excuse me?” she query-yelled through the open passenger side window. “Can you tell me how to get to College?”

I paused. I had that walk timed so I never waited more than a few minutes for the train, so I wanted to keep walking, but what could I do? It’s common courtesy. “The university, or the street?” I asked.

“The street.”

“Oooh,” I said. “You’re completely turned around.” She watched me with her head cocked to one side.

“Look, ” I advised. “You need to turn your car around and head south about two miles.” I nodded in the direction I’d been walking. “Then take a left toward the hills. Let’s see…you’ll cross (hmmm – Shattuck, Telegraph…) two major intersections before you reach College. You can’t miss it.”

She looked a little puzzled. “Soooo….” she started, aiming an index finger at her own windshield, “where should I turn?”

I was stymied. I was struck with the realization that this driver had no idea she was piloting a vehicle on the surface of a planet. She had no awareness that there was a large natural bay to her left and a range of hills on her right. And I had no words that could bridge our communication gap.

“I’m sorry,” I concluded. “I have to go. Good luck!” and I crossed the street toward the BART station, in front of her idling car.