I have found myself in an area of London where I am in the minority - my white skin coloring and English language are not the norm here. I walk into the small storefronts and don't recognize many of the foodstuffs, much less the background music playing on the radio. My sneakers are too new; my handbag is out of the question. I look different. I sound different. I am the one who is the target of sideways glances and curious peeks.

This morning, as I climbed aboard the local bus, I cheerily said, "Good morning" to the bus driver. Apparently, that is not the norm. I was greeted with a bus full of stares.

I have had this experience once before, when, in college during the '70s, a dear friend and I spent a summer in Japan. We were considered the gaijin, the foreigners. We were the ones with the unusual body odors and the different facial and body structures. My friend, who describes herself as 5'13", was constantly asked her height. I, on the other hand, leaning toward the round, was asked my weight.

Thank God, this trip I am not being asked my physicals stats. In fact, I find myself wanting to be invisible. I want to blend in; my aim is not to draw attention to myself. I once had a teacher who taught me a Tibetan energy practice to become invisible. Alas, I have left that file folder at home.

And, of course, that is perfect, because my "fish out of water" feelings are excellent teaching tools as I find myself plunked down in a poor area of west London where the demographics appear to be a melting pot of the world, especially the Middle East, Pakistan, India and, most recently, Poland.

I came here as an invited guest of a Peruvian shaman and healer, who arrived in this neighborhood 23 years ago. She had left the life of an embassy wife with servants and a four-bedroom home in Africa, and entered this new phase of her life with two small children and nary a blanket to keep them all warm. A housing commission for the homeless provided this apartment. She tells me she has lived here without incident, and advises me to be friendly to the boys who hang out front and not to be out alone at night.

On Day Two here, I decide that I can find my way home as I walk from the subway. It is still light outside, and off I go, confident of my direction.

As you may have guessed, I got lost. It is now dark. I have reached the highway. There is a gas station and I ask the attendant; he doesn't understand me and beckons for a customer, who, in turn, sends me to his girlfriend. No luck; no one has heard of this address, and no one seems to understand what I am asking.

I then walk some more and find a food take-out place and a convenience store that are still open. I ask if they can direct me, but they cannot decipher me or my location. I wait on the darkened street to use one of the two local phone booths that seem to have taken in permanent residents. Eventually, I get a turn, but my coins keep getting returned. I am beginning to panic.

There is a man on the street who is talking on a cell phone in front of a boarded-up, albeit lit from the inside, storefront. He is conversing in a language foreign to me; I ask him for help. He doesn't answer me, but takes the slip of paper with phone number from my hand, dials the number on his cell, pulls the earpiece out of his ear and hands it to me.

Simultaneously, he shouts into the storefront and two of his cronies appear. They come out into the street bearing a map. One says, "Let's put her in the car and drive her home." The other says, "It's a 10-minute walk." I tell them I can manage the walk, now that I have been pointed in the right direction, and I thank them profusely for their help. I am so relieved to be rescued. I am caught in the immediate awareness that we are all so alike. Everyone understands being lost.

And my hostess, who has now left her cozy home to meet me on the street as I round the corner into her complex, says. "You sounded a bit hysterical." And she was right, I was. I didn't feel safe, and for really no good reason other than I was in a somewhat deserted area at night that was so very unusual, so very dissimilar. I was fearful - and I hate that about myself. Why does the strange have to be fearful?

My hostess added, "It is good you got lost. It will never happen again." She is right. On this particular path, to and fro the subway station from her apartment, I will be able to find my way.

By definition, doesn't "lost" usually mean having gone astray in an unknown place? There are no familiar landmarks, anchor points or guideposts. There is not your usual Starbucks or pizza joint on the corner. We are forced to learn anew - about ourselves, our thinking, our automatic responses and our ever-lovin' assumptions and expectations.

I certainly learned the other side of bias and prejudice during my summer in Japan. I felt I got a crash course in walking in another person's shoes; I learned firsthand what it feels like to be in the minority. And that lesson has continued here. It is invaluable.

Furthermore, in west London I am receiving a tutorial in better understanding those who financially live close to the bone or with no bone at all. This is an excellent lesson.

The gods certainly knew what they were doing when they guided me here. My awareness, humility and perspective on the priorities of life have been stretched. I am exploring my inner landmarks, so when I get lost again in the future - and invariably I will - I will be less afraid and see more clearly the connections as opposed to the differences.

As for my temporary new neighborhood ands its increasingly familiar outer landmarks, nothing seems particularly scary anymore. I am feeling more at home every day - and it all feels pretty perfect right now.

James Joyce once wrote, "Mistakes are the portals of discovery." He had a point.

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Dr. Adele Ryan McDowell, Ph.D., is a psychologist, empath and shaman who likes looking at life with the big viewfinder. Her email address is {email ARMCDOWELL@aol.com}ARMCDOWELL@aol.com{/email}. © Copyright 2007 by Adele Ryan McDowell.