February
27, 201
Living in progressive times like these
makes it possible to still experience “firsts,” even as the years pile up. Take, for example, my first adventure with the GPS
function of my new Droid phone yesterday. Being in a remote neighborhood of Portland
and needing to get to a certain hospital to make a pastoral visit, I asked a
couple of questions of my relatives about directions. One of them set up the
phone’s GPS/map function and said all I had to do was follow instructions.
Fine. I can do that. I can follow
instructions. So I boarded my Rave4, slid the phone in an available slot, and
took off. A pleasant feminine voice gave patient directions. I listened and
obeyed. It seemed that all went better than imagined.
Now, I know Portland pretty well. It
took me but a few right and left turns to figure out where I was in relation to
the rest of the city. In fact, I soon knew exactly where to go and didn’t
really need the GPS (I’ll call her, “Gipsy”). When I got to a fork in the road,
the sign said I should veer to the right, but Gipsy urged me to the left. Then
she started to spit out rapid-fire commands. I was to turn right on Blah-blah
SE, then left on Blah-blah, followed by an immediate order to turn right on East
Blah-blah Avenue.
Three quick commands referring to
streets with which I was not entirely familiar turned out to be more than I
could process. I couldn’t read the street signs fast enough and made a wrong
turn. Gipsy began a whole new line of orders. “Right at Blah-blah Drive, right
at Blah-blah Street NE and make a U-turn.” Brother, was she ever bossy. When I
somehow arrived at the correct place, a No
U-Turn sign forced me to keep going forward. Gipsy, nevertheless, continued
a series of quick orders to turn either left or right. I sensed her vocal
chords tightening just a bit—or was it me?
I suddenly found myself in a part of
Portland I had seen before. In fact, that time I got lost without the benefit
of Gipsy. She’s still talked to me, but I didn’t listen anymore. I got to a
freeway on-ramp and gunned my car in the right direction.
Gipsy spoke a little slower now—almost as
if she felt tired. She told me to proceed three miles before turning onto a
particular exit. Then she said no more. For three miles of rollicking Portland
freeway driving I forged ahead
in blissful silence. At the exit she gave clear orders I didn’t need to hear, and I told
her so.
After the visit, I returned to my
relatives home with a sense of serenity. I forbade Gipsy to speak, and got back
to the our relatives’ house in almost half the time it took me to get from
there to the hospital.
Moral:
A good map works for me better than that chatty electronic Gipsy. Still,
I believe I’ll try it again. Maybe, like in almost everything else techno,
practice will make perfect.
Richard M. Cary
www.quietstreambooks.com
