I had never been to Fostoria before, but not for lack of trying.
Right after I got my driver's license, I got lost trying to find this unincorporated community northeast of Manhattan. It was May Day, and I had been selected to drive my younger siblings around so they could leave May baskets on our friends' porches. Our final stop for the day was in Fostoria, about 20 miles from our home.
I remember driving up and down Highway 13 for what seemed like ages. I'm honestly not sure how I could have missed Fostoria. My best guess is that the change from Highway 13 into Highway 16 must have made me think I'd already passed it, so I'd turn around and drive south again.
However it happened, though, it worried me so much that my stomach tied itself in a double knot. My state of mind was not helped any by the ceaseless refrain of "Are we LOST?!" from the back seat.
About the third time I turned around, I noticed that the fuel level was very low in our old blue Chevy Cavalier. There were a few gas stations around, but none was open.
Worried about running out of gas, I finally gave up on Fostoria and found my way back to Manhattan. We rolled into the parking lot of a corner gas station right as the engine sputtered and died. I had to coast to the pump to fill 'er up.
This most recent trip to Fostoria was less eventful. We drove around the town, got out to look at this old church building, and then hurried back to the van because an enormous Rottweiler had chewed through his rope at the trucking operation next door and was showing some interest in us.
Other than that, not much to report. After 16 years, I can finally say I've been to Fostoria. Mission accomplished.