This is a story about how, while taking advantage of all the latest advances in progress, one should not lose common sense and connection with real life.

On the advice of friends in New York, I didn't stay in a hotel but opted for a classic B&B , a room rented out by a New York landlord. After choosing a suitable option using the online service AIRBNB, I made a deposit and received the contact information for my future host, a local writer named Edward.

Social media has made the world small and cramped - fifteen minutes later I found Edward on FB, learned that he has almost two thousand friends, that he is a sociable and prolific user.

Edward's AIRBNB page included detailed instructions on how to find his place: "If you arrive at JFK, take the subway line... If at La Guardia... If at Newark..." and so on. Naturally, this included directions to Pen (Pensylvania) Station, where my train from Washington arrived: "Take the A, B, or C (subway) train, ride two stops to West 4th St., transfer to the F line, two stops to Second Avenue," and so on.

The details were as detailed as possible, making it impossible to make a mistake: "Get off at Second Avenue, get in the middle of the train, go two blocks up Second Avenue, turn right past the large parking lot, cross Avenue A, see the Chase Bank branch, and my house is right behind it."

I love clear instructions! I glanced at the address. It looked succinct: E 2nd St. NY 10011 (I've changed the numbers). I didn't bother memorizing it; no need to worry about it, it's already on my device. We'll be fine. I consider my English almost flawless. And if the Americans disagree, that's their business.

The day before my arrival, I received a text message from AIRBNB, reminding me that I was supposed to be in New York the next day, staying at an apartment I'd booked through their website. We were visiting, but I still took the precaution of sending Edward a cheerful message: "Arriving tomorrow on the eleven o'clock train from Washington. Coming straight to your place!" "No problem," Edward replied. "I'm home then." "That's great," I thought happily. "I won't have to lug a bag around New York!"

I was traveling to New York from Washington, D.C., on the morning train. The Wi-Fi in the car was decent. But I spent the entire three and a half hours posting photos and other nonsense on Facebook; it didn't even occur to me to bother checking my address in New York!

Then it went like this. I got off at Pen Station, found the subway entrance, boarded the A train, took it two stops later at West 4th St., transferred to the F train, and rode two more stops to Second Avenue. Edward's instructions worked like clockwork.

After getting off at Second Avenue, I followed the directions up Houston (it had a distinct slope), turned right after two blocks, crossed First Street, passed a parking garage, and arrived at the Chase Bank branch on the corner of Second Street. Everything seemed to be going according to plan! But where was the building I needed?

After pacing back and forth and finding nothing, I dialed Edward's number. I didn't want to waste international roaming money, of course, but what could I do? The conversation wasn't supposed to be long; Edward was somewhere nearby.

I listened to the beeps until the operator interrupted them. No one answered.

"No problem! Anything can happen..." I decided. "Edward is a creative person. Maybe he worked all night and can't wake up. Or, on the contrary, he was partying all night, forgot his cell phone in his coat, is drinking coffee in the morning and doesn't hear the ringer. Nonsense! We don't live in the nineteenth century, I'll find it somehow."

I went into the first shop I came to (it turned out to be a gift and flower shop). "Excuse me. Can you tell me how to find this address? It's somewhere very close." The girl glanced at the screen of my gadget. "Second Street is here," she said. "What house number are you looking for?" "What do you mean, which one? This one - 10011!" - "That's not a house number. It's a zip code." - "It can't be? Are you sure?" - "Absolutely!"

I almost laughed—quite inappropriately. Remember the old joke with a similar plot?

The thing is, in Washington, D.C., where, as you may recall, I come from, house numbers are sequential. That is, there's only one house in the city with the number, say, 1411 (our hotel). In principle, this number is sufficient to find the house; the other information—14th Street, the corner with Avenue K—is provided merely for ease of reference. I was certain that New York City, too, adopted the same practical and parsimonious American address system.

I went outside and dialed Edward's number again. Still, no one answered. But even then, I still hadn't realized the extent of the misunderstanding.

I remembered the text message from AIRBNB. I found it on my phone... Of course! Besides the above, there really was some three-digit number, like 175.

With the text message on my phone, I returned to the flower shop. "Does it look like...?" I asked. "It does," the girl replied. "It is a house number. But it's not here at all. This is number 8. And yours, 175, is at the other end of the street!" "No way! I followed the instructions exactly! There's a Chase Bank. There's a multi-story parking lot! It's somewhere nearby!" "Alas, alas..." the girl shrugged and turned to the customer who had just entered.

I went outside again. And dialed Edward's number again. And – lo and behold! – this time Edward answered after the eighth ring.

"Hi, Edward!" I exclaimed happily. "Pavel speaking. I'm afraid I've lost my way. I'm standing next to the Chase Bank. How shall I find you?" There was a puzzled silence on the other end of the line for a moment. "Hi, Edward! Pavel speaking," I repeated. And I heard the answer in perfect Russian: "Go to hell! There's no Edward here!" And they hung up.

It became clear that something had gone wrong. Something had gone wrong. What do I actually know about this Edward? We'd corresponded online twice. What if he's a scammer, swindling gullible tourists out of their money? What if? It happens. It's not that difficult. What should I do in that case?

Well, first I need to contact AIRBNB and figure out what's going on. AIRBNB bears some responsibility for what's going on! Contacting them is the first step. And for that, I need the internet. I started looking around for a cafe that would offer internet access as a bonus with my coffee.

So imagine a cloudy Sunday morning in early spring. A few pedestrians, gloomy and sleep-deprived, are on the street—good people still recovering from a wild Saturday evening. An old tenement district somewhere deep in Manhattan, grayish identical buildings, windows dirty from winter, not very welcoming eateries just opening, catering not to tourists but to locals. Shivering and yawning residents, taking their dogs out for a walk. And not a single establishment with Wi-Fi—because it's clear at first glance: no one here needs Wi-Fi! 

(By the end of my second day in New York, I realized that Wi-Fi is available in every cafe here, even the smallest eatery. It never occurs to the owners to put a special sticker about it on the front door, as is common in Europe.)

And then, I confess, I was overcome with panic: I was lost! I was alone in a completely foreign city, on the other side of the planet from home, in a city known from films and books for its cold and merciless nature. What should I do? Where should I go? For some reason, I remembered the three and a half hours wasted on the Washington-New York train.

I wonder where I'll spend this night? A flophouse? Ugh! What if they don't take credit cards? Then I simply won't have enough cash! A hotel? Another three nights at $150—that's not in the trip budget.

A flurry of thoughts like these raced through my head. But, citizens, I suppressed the panic and, after a while, finally pulled myself together.

"So what," I thought, "no internet connection! How did we ever live without it? How did we live without all those navigators, websites, and services? Without smartphones, tablets, and other, God forgive me, gadgets? We lived pretty well, by the way. We navigated with maps. We planned our routes in advance. We asked locals if something was wrong, we met and talked. In short, we lived in the real world, not in a comfortable virtual cradle where everything is decided and planned for you in advance! And from which you're deathly afraid to take an extra step!"

Anyway, here's the deal. I decided to walk Second Street from end to end and find number 175. Along the way, I struck up a conversation with a local girl walking her Pomeranian, joked around, and promised to stay the night if I didn't find Edward. She promised to come out with the Pomeranian again that evening and pick me up if anything happened. Besides the girl, I also made contact with some homeless guy who was counting change in his hand, presumably for a hangover.

I found house number 175. Near the intercom buttons next to the door were the names of all the residents. Including my Edward. And you know what else? Around the corner was a multi-story parking lot. And next door was a Chase Bank branch—as it turns out, they're on every corner in New York.

It's time to tell where the dog was buried. In New York, there is "up" and "down"—Downtown and Uppertown, I knew that before the trip. But each street also has a direction: up means ascending house numbers, down means descending house numbers. In the actual slope of the terrain, this is irrelevant—meaning, from the subway up Houston, I should have gone in the opposite direction, then the instructions would have led me smoothly to my New York abode.

But that's understandable. It can be explained somehow: what was obvious to Edward, the American, confused the Russian. But how I could have mixed up the number in Edward's phone number and dialed 222 instead of 272—that's something I just can't understand.

It's simply inexplicable. This has never happened to me before. But what can I do? Apparently, "the air of freedom played a cruel joke on Pleischner," as they once said in a popular Soviet film.

Pavel Vereshchagin