Asking for directions

I was walking across the street this afternoon when a battered blue minivan pulled up next to me to ask for directions. In the passenger seat was Latino man with a buzz cut and unshaven whiskers. He asked me for "dohj street" in broken English and pointed to a street address scrawled on the back of a folded yellow paper.
I've lived in Rockford nearly all my life and I've never heard of a Dodge Street. A quick look on my Treo's Google Maps confirmed it -- there isn't such a street in Rockford. Then he showed me the rest of his chicken-scratch note:

1111 dodge st
duplex, iwoa
52003

Then I realized -- he was trying to get someplace in IOWA. Whoa. I told him he was in Illinois. He groaned. I asked, where are you coming from? Miami was the answer.
The minivan was full: half a dozen Spanish-speaking adults on the seats and their gear crammed into the recesses. They chattered back and forth in their tongue, unintelligible to me. I assume they were migrant workers, coming up here to meet someone with nothing more than an address and a cursory grasp of the language. Later, I tried to imagine what it would be like to try and travel 1,500 miles in an unfamiliar country -- especially as a stranger.
To try and help out, I turned to Google Maps again and searched the address based on the ZIP, I came up with Dubuque, Iowa -- the town he wrote as "duplex," I'm sure.
Even though this caravan was about 90 miles away from his destination, I could at least help a little. They were only four blocks from East State Street, which is Business U.S. 20, so I sent them back that way and told them to take it west all the way. It goes straight through Dubuque.
They should have made it by now. I really hope they did.