I am convinced the Civic sensed I was giving Google-eyed glances
at other cars. It must have known I’d visited a dealer. I’d even another
vehicle for a test drive. Hell, I’d fully set my mind to getting a new car. The
Civic died two days before I’d planned to trade it in. It would have been
sooner but I’d spent three weeks waffling over the color of my next pretty new
thing. That color indecision and the Civic’s keen senses about my wandering eye
cost me dearly: a towing, a needless diagnostic assessment on repair costs
($8-10,000!) and no trade-in.
Life happens.
I shrugged off the bad timing and bought my Mini Cooper.
British Racing Green (which sounds like a Benjamin Moore-rejected name for dark
green). It suits the new downsized me. In April, I went from 2,000 square foot
house to postage stamp condo. So long sedan; I’ve now got a car that can toot
about alongside Little Jimmy’s Big Wheel.
The funny thing is that now that I’m back in Vancouver, I
don’t actually need a car. I walk most places and take the bus or Skytrain when
my foot blisters get fussy. But that’s where the road trip thing came in. I
couldn’t let my shiny new toy sit in a parking garage.
I should have gotten a GPS system when I bought the car, but
I’m not a gadget guy. Besides, I don’t like humanoids becoming my travel
companion. I might fall in love if I choose a male Aussie voice. (That’s what
happened to Joaquin Phoenix, isn’t it?)
Unfortunately, two days into my trip to Minneapolis, I lost
all sense of direction. Each evening, I Google-mapped and Mapquested my next
day’s route and somehow I’d get all turned around when I neared my stopping
point for the night. Billings proved to be the worst. Having driven from
Spokane and been spooked by rattlesnake warnings and a severe storm in Butte
(complete with radio-interrupted warnings), I was thrilled to see the miles to
Billings slim down on road signs. I took my Google Map exit and spun around and
around on a series of overpasses, eventually stopping after fifteen minutes of
searching for a hotel that was supposed to be three minutes from the freeway
exit.
I consulted apps on my phone. First, I couldn’t get any
connectivity. Then the trusty app stated it could not locate my whereabouts. I
drove a little more through an industrial area and typed in the nearest cross
streets. Still no recognition. I was in Billings hell. UnMapquest worthy. After
several relocations, the app coughed up a lengthy series of directions. No
“lefts” or “rights”, only norths, souths, easts and wests.
Not helpful. My inner compass has never worked and now I was
further turned around. I guessed and, yes, guessed wrong. I should learn to go
against my instincts, but I keep thinking I’ll guess right one day. It’s that
faulty logic that makes me a lottery donor, too.
Sixty-seven minutes after pulling off the highway, I rolled
into the hotel parking lot, in the thick of an urban nowhere with a “park”
across the street, otherwise known as an abandoned, fenced in lot with untamed grass,
a wildlife refuge no doubt to hundreds of rats. I skipped going out for dinner,
too worried I would never make it back. Instead, I sat on the hotel bed and finished
off my snack box of Triscuits while looking out the window at the unobstructed
view of a tractor parts parking lot. Needless to say, I turned in early.
I realize that I need to buy a GPS system…or at least buy a collection
of road maps. (Remember those massive paper things that rip in the creases and
never fold back into their original state?) But Billings shall bear the brunt
of my directionally-challenged frustration.
Sorry, Billings. I’ll always hate you.
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