There are only a few times I can remember being lost.
The Latin Quarter of Paris - we wound our way to the center. To find our way back we followed the larger crowds. Surely it was dinner time on St. Germaine.
The other time was in Zacatecas. On my way back from school I met a group of nuns from California and they turned me around. Thunder and monsoon rain kept everyone at a distance.
The last time was on a road trip to New Mexico from San Francisco. Chris and I took the old highways that zigzagged across farm land. It was a deep, dark night and we counted mile markers and houses strung with Christmas lights for hours - finding ourselves in Barstow; guided only by our own light.
No moon to speak of.