I love traveling through the Southwest although I’m a city boy. The desert landscape, so different from the lush tropical landscape I grew up in, appeals to me, but the wide open spaces, the vast distances, the absence of condos, ATMs and stop lights always makes me apprehensive, so on a recent road trip through Arizona I decided to splurge on a GPS system in the rental car. I was assured the system was totally intuitive: enter an address and the GPS would effortlessly guide me to my destination.
The GPS system was piloted by a computer generated voice, that of an unflappable woman with a calm, assured command of the Arizona roadways. My partner and I liked her immediately; we named her Liz, because it sounded no-nonsense and professional. Without a second thought we put our lives in Liz’s hands.
We trusted Liz absolutely. We’d enter a destination in the GPS and she took over. “Calculating route,” she’d say thoughtfully while we waited expectantly. A minute later she’d say with authority, “Follow the designated route,” and a little map flashed on the monitor. And we were off.
Liz became as much a part of our trip as stopping at every McDonald’s in Arizona for Diet Coke. We came to rely on her unerring sense of direction. We got used to her saying, “Make a right turn in 2 miles,” followed by, “make a right turn in zero point five miles.” We were charmed by her habit of ringing a chime (“Dong-ding.”) when it was time to actually make the turn. No more frantic lane changes or missed exits when Liz was navigating.
Unlike my partner, Liz never got annoyed when I did not follow her directions. When I turned left instead of right, or missed an exit completely, she would not sigh or roll her eyebrows or demand that I stop the car so she could drive. Liz understood. “Recalculating route!” she would say tactfully, and get me back on track.
I came to trust Liz so completely, I got complacent. Later in the week, Liz forgot to give me my two-mile warning and I did not know if I should head east or west on an obscure rural highway. “Liz,” I said, slightly panicked, “where do I go?” She ignored me, and showed up a minute later. She seemed disoriented, like she had been napping. “Make a left turn in zero point five miles,” she said hastily, but I missed the exit.
Liz was not pleased, but all she said was. “When possible, make a legal U-turn.” I was on a 2-lane highway; on one side was a sheer vertical cliff and on the other a steepdrop to the canyon floor far, far below: A u-turn was not possible, so I ignored her. She repeated herself but I was still unable to turn around. “When possible, make a legal U-turn,” she said inexorably, and I detected an edge in her voice.
Frustrated, I began to tell Liz what I thought of her navigational skills but my partner stopped me. “Don’t,” he said. “I know her type; she’ll retaliate,” just as Liz said frostily, “When possible, make a legal U-turn.”
The relationship headed south from there, culminating with the day when Liz missed the Grand Canyon. I was fuming. “How can she lose the Grand Canyon?” I asked, “it’s 200 miles long!”
My partner was smug. “I told you not to yell at her.”
No missile-guided Barbie doll was going to control me. I stopped at the next gas station and got a road map; the old fashioned kind that covers the entire front seat and is impossible to re-fold. Liz did not even have time to protest as I turned the GPS system off. I showed her: I am perfectly capable of getting lost in the old-fashioned way – all by myself.