There was a contraption that Amelia Erhardt’s people strapped her into, a kind of flight simulator. It had no windows and it spun three hundred and sixty degrees. After whirling around for minutes, the machine stopped. There, in the dark, perhaps hanging upside down, men with clipboards yelled into her and asked, “Okay, what’s your direction now?” And she shouted back an answer, maybe northwest. She did this for months, until she was right almost every time.

She needed an internal compass that wasn’t nailed down, a compass that she could rely on irrespective of weather or the accuracy of flight control. She needed something that functioned perfectly in all conditions.

My compass was pointing due Trader Joes.  Nipples skimming my linen shirt, the sliding doors part.  I am surrounded by cool air and barely audible easy listening music. While dropping edamame into my cart and looking at the fish, I feel a hit of full magnetization. My back straightens, and my whole body is alert. My heart, organs, and the clitoral arrow are drawn forward. View full article »