A street sign. The fastest and easiest way to begin to discern one's location. Why hadn't you thought of it before?
Oh, that's right. Probably because of your brain-throttling hangover, and the fact that your entire world had been contained within a phone booth until some minutes prior.
Staggering to the corner alerts you to an exciting array of aches and pains jangling around your body. You hurt in places you're not sure you even had the night before.
The only thing that could possibly be worse than the symphony of suffering that movement arouses is cacophony of complaints your stomach begins to issue. Your face flushes and your mouth waters as a torrential downpour of nausea hammers through your insides.
"Dude, you still there, broham?"
As if you didn't already feel like you were going to puke.
You look up, the street sign towering above you, the afternoon sun burning your eyes like the wrath of a vengeful, teetotaling God.
"Yeah, man. I'm up at... 51st and Spruce." Of all the non-descriptive street names. It doesn't help that you hardly know the city, having only moved there a few months previous.
There's a pause on the line as your new buddy takes down the address. You take the moment to back up from the corner and crouch down, leaning back against the nearest wall. The rest of your five senses are coming back online, slowly, and smell is picking up a faint odor of urine. You can only hope it's coming from the nearby alley, and not your shoes.