Voice at the End of the Tunnel

As an early adopter of GPS technology, about the first thing I did after installing the device in my car was to turn off the voice that tells you what to do every driving moment. I’ve heard the voice referred to as, “the bitch in the box,” in my estimation an apt description by those who opt for the female rather than male voice. I’m not sure what the male voice is called, other than irritating.
Recently, two friends added GPS devices to their lives—for better or worse. Both these people are the kind who would resent (for lack of a better term) someone telling them what to do, especially when it comes to driving.
After the second of these folks extolled the virtues of the voice in breathless terms “… and she knew right where the ally was!” I decided to re-examine my life as it relates to the pleasant British-accented lady in my GPS, aka, the bitch in the box.
On a recent 350-mile trip that had a total of six turns to get me to my destination, I opted to turn on “the voice.” Packed and ready, humming the opening bars of John Denver’s “Take Me Home Country Roads,” I backed out of the drive as “the voice” delivered her first instructions. I was ready to shut “the voice” off within 50 feet. “Honestly lady, I know how to get out of my own condo complex!” I said to the colorful, glowing box and the stunned neighbor who happened to be walking her dog near the spot where I began my rant.
For hundreds of miles she rode along, pleasantly enjoying the endless miles of corn and soy beans, didn’t have much to say and made only a few, unnecessary interruptions to the book I was listening to. It was at the point where she was telling me to go straight (I wanted to say, “Go forward, never straight,” but I didn’t think she would appreciate the humor.), the protagonist of the story was in a heap of trouble and my cell phone was ringing with such enjoyment I thought it would leap off the dashboard, that I decided she had to getouttathecar!
Fortunately, this all happened as I was about to enter a rest area. I managed to push the wrong button on my fancy new phone and dispatch the caller. Ooops. Next, I sent the finely tuned British babe packing so I could pay attention while my hero extricated himself from a jam that would have taken my life.
So, the experiment lasted only a few hours, probably not time enough for true evaluation. Guess what? I don’t care. I dug around in the four, count ‘em folks, four, map pockets in my car for a map of Indiana. Then, like a blinding flash of the obvious, it hit me: Why would a car manufacturer carefully engineer four map pockets into a car with only two doors? Duh.
I unfolded the map of Indiana, a state more vertical than horizontal, which makes it easier to drive and read while you’re going 70 miles per hour and don’t have a passenger to hold the steering wheel.
First thing that hits you is the aroma of a map. Like that first cup of coffee in the morning that awakens your senses in anticipation of the mysterious, unknown day that lies ahead. Second, there’s the peaceful pleasure of paper maps—they don’t talk back. They allow you to make your own decisions.
And maybe best of all, paper maps can be shown to people who might not otherwise speak the your language, like folks in North Carolina where you’re trying to find some trout stream that does not seem to exist.
Take me home country roads.