Going Somewhere?

Why is it that whenever you're in a hurry, it seems that all the world conspires to prevent you from being on time at your chosen destination? You could be in labor, hanging onto a severed limb, or running late for work, and you'll have the misfortune of hitting every red light in the city. But if you have all the time in the world, it's as if Moses has parted the Red Sea for you, holding the evil motorists at bay.

Matt and I were going to an appointment in Philadelphia a few weeks ago. We made sure there was plenty of time for us to find the building and be on time. We got on the turnpike mid-morning and were amazed at how light the traffic was. We got off the toll road and onto a smaller highway, which wound through town after town.

We'd never been in the neighborhood, and found the shops lining the streets charming. The homes were beautiful and well taken care of. There were several lights, but as if on queue, they were all green as we sailed through the quaint community. We arrived almost an hour before the appointment.

The ride home, however, was very, very different, and I can explain why in two words--rush hour.

The lazy country road had turned into a congealed sea of bumper to bumper cars, trucks and every conceivable motorized vehicle known to man. We were stunned, and proceeded in silence.

All those wonderful, cooperative green lights now burned red. We didn't make one single green light. In fact, we generally had to sit through lights turning green then red, then green and red again because inevitably, every car in front of us was turning left. Of course there were no left hand turn signals (that would have been too practical), and no room to go around the offending vehicle.

The sidewalks were teeming with people, and many were diving between cars in the middle of the road. Folks were weaving between the traffic, stepping in front of trucks and skirting motorcycles as if they were in a "Frogger" video game. What could be so important that you'd risk your life darting in between two ton death machines operated by cranky commuters?

I tell you what, there could be a leprechaun dancing a jig, giving out gold doubloons, and offering free rides on a unicorn on the other side of that street, and I still wouldn't take my life into my hands by traversing that sea of cars and trucks.

There we were, dumbfounded country dwellers trapped in a living abyss, with no earthly idea how we were going to navigate this mess. We didn't know how to get around it all. We were trapped.

At this point, I should point out that we have a GPS system, but I have a problem with the surly woman who keeps barking "turn left" or "turn right." If you have the gall to disobey, she bellows "recalculating," as if she's chiding a disobedient schoolgirl.

And, ladies, if getting a man to stop and ask for directions before the invention of the Garmin wasn't hard enough, factor in a surly GPS genie whose coordinates may or may not have been entered correctly, and you could be doomed to wander the streets for years.

Another reason I dislike the curt GPS woman is because my very best friend in the whole wide world Michele and I used it to navigate a trip to Philadelphia (on our own) a few years ago. Bear in mind that she's often referred to as the Ethel to my Lucy, so things had a good chance of not working out for the best. At first, we couldn't figure out how to use the thing, yet we drove on. Somewhere along the turnpike, Michele announced that she'd managed to input our destination's address.

I was so proud.

We were having a nice drive until we got off the turnpike. Then the GPS Nazi began barking out orders.

I swear, it had us going in circles, driving down one way roads, squeaking through alleys and telling us to go over this or that bridge. Frankly, we were scared we were going to be launched into the Schuylkill River, a la "Thelma and Louise." Since then, I have shunned Garmin Girl like a weight watcher at a dessert bar.

Back to the future, where Matt and I were sitting in traffic for almost an hour when Matt finally yelled, "Turn that stupid GPS broad on! I've got to get out of here."

Things got worse.

After about 15 minutes, I managed to input where we were, and where we wanted to go. It took a while because we couldn't see the cross streets since we were behind a giant truck, whose tailpipe emitted blinding puffs of smoke. All we could see were its very large, very dirty doors. Well, that and "How's my driving" emblazoned in big black letters. I was taught that if you can't say something nice, don't say anything at all, or I would have told him in no uncertain terms how his driving was.

I finally turned the evil GPS frau on, and she began to boss us around, bellowing her orders. But the information wasn't accurate and we were completely lost. Turns out you have to update the GPS every so often. Huh? You learn something new everyday.

Matt finally had had enough when the dowager ordered us to turn right--now! If we'd obeyed, we would have been worshipping among the faithful at Holy Nativity Episcopal Church--the flock in their pews, and us in our car in the newly created drive-thru.

I was so tired and mad, I actually started yelling at the Garmin girl as if I expected her to answer. Which I kind of did--I was poised for a catfight.

Matt, who's normally very level-headed and even-keeled, had also had enough. He wanted to pull over, rip the GPS out of the car and run over it a couple of times. I would have been standing on the sidelines cheerleading.

We finally managed to get out of the mass of all things automated and were on a two lane highway. We still didn't know where we were, but at least there weren't trucks spewing fumes in our faces, cars honking, lights changing and people proudly showing us their middle fingers. We figured we'd get our bearings soon. And then we saw the sign.

"Welcome to New Jersey."

When we arrived home several hours later, we must have looked as shocked and confused as Fred and Wilma Flintstone at a Star Trek convention. I got out of the car and hugged our house, promising to never leave it again. Thankfully, if I need to go more than five miles from my house, I have two daughters who can drive me. More importantly, they're not afraid of the GPS genie.

On the bright side, we're going to have to go back down to the same place a few more times this year. Now that we've experienced the worst, we're prepared for it and we know that we can get through it together. There's always a silver lining.

As for that GPS shrew, I fixed her. I found out that I can change her into a man, so, poof! She's been replaced by a smooth, calming male voice.

Who's the genie now?

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