Back in the Late 70s, when I was a young Marine, my future first wife and I were taking a trip to Mystic Seaport, in Connecticut. We were driving up from NJ, where she was teaching, as we had not yet married, still had a few months to go. I had driven up from NC where I was stationed, and spent the night in Trenton and we headed up the next morning. We stopped for gas at a small full service station somewhere in New England, and she asked me to see how much further it was to Mystic, so we could decide on lunch.. stop now, or wait. She went to use the facilities.
This old feller came out to fill the tank, and I mean OLD, he was somewhere between seventy and death. He was wearing overalls, a plaid shirt and a cap with a brim about a foot long. If I had to describe him, I say he looked "badly weathered." He was about five foot nothin, thin as a reed, and slow movin'. He walked up to the car, stood there looking at me, never said a word. I had gotten out to stretch my legs , it had been a long hard week of Marine Training, and I had stiffened up quite a bit.
"Fill 'er up please," I asked the old gent, "Regular?"
"Ayuh." He said, the accent so thick you could cut it...
He plugged in the nozzle and got to work. He was hunched over the nozzle staring at the tank like he expected something to crawl out of it at any minute. That kind of concentration should be rewarded.
He was frozen over the back of the car like a statue and I really didn't want to bother him, but this was the late 70s... no GPS, No internet."Excuse me Sir.." I said, "Can you tell me how to get to Mystic Seaport from here, about how much farther do we have to go?"
He slowly turned his head away from the project at hand and stared at me for a good thirty seconds. Turned back to the job and said, "Ayuh."
I waited. One minute. Two minutes. I guessed he was gathering his thoughts... three minutes.
Ah, maybe not."Ah, Sir... could you tell me how to get to Mystic Seaport, NOW?"
Heavy Sigh from the Old Geezer, as if it was a HUGE task. Never looked up.
"First light, take a right. Next light, a left. Light after that, notha right. Can't miss hit."
"Thank you, Sir." I said.
He clicked off the pump, and racked the nozzle.
"Ayuh. Eight Fifty."
I paid, he walked away and never looked back.
Wife to be walked out and got in the car.
"So?" she asked.
"Three lights, can't be far."
"We'll eat there."
First light was in the next town, twenty minutes up the road.
Light after that, another town up the road, thirty minutes.
Third light... next town. Another forty minutes or so.
Still another half hour after that, but he was right, we came over the hill and would have driven into the ocean if we didn't stop.
The future bride was pissed and starving by the time we arrived, and for some reason, the rest of the day seemed very long...
... somehow it all became MY fault. (I should have taken the hint and run for the hills.)
When I got back to my base, I told the story to my roommate in the barracks, who was from Vermont. He died laughing. He told me I was lucky. The old man could have spent twenty minutes giving me directions that involved bent trees, fallen down barns, grandma Smith's house, and then... said,
Mimicking the old man's accent perfectly : "Ah, Neva you mind young fella, ya can't get thah from heah."
I was on an adventure, so I gave er a try. 
They liked our money, but not Americans. A bartender told me that they would love us again the next time they were invaded. He was amazed that I was a Marine, and really didn't drink. My buddies were drinking enough to make up for it though.