IT IS THE 150th ANNIVERSARY of that great mapmaker, Rand
McNally. Which is to say, it is the 150th anniversary of
conversations such as these:
"Uh, where are we?"
"I don't know."
"Can you check the map?"
"Sure."
"See where we are?"
"I think so."
"See where we should be going?"
"Um … I think … let's see … maybe … this way?"
Even now, with all the electronic, computerized hoo-ha, a trip, to
me, means buying and studying a map. I love choosing just the right
one, with lettering that is not too big, not too small, and has
parts of the city arranged in a way that provides both an overview
and a microscopic look. I like spreading them out on the dining
room table at night, contemplating the route.
I hate the feeling of having to pull over when things just don't
feel right, knowing I am hopelessly lost, but cherish that
exhilarating "A-ha" moment when I look at the map and discover that
I am found. Well, okay, maybe not found, but at least a general
sense of where I should have turned.
I like scribbling notes on maps. I like spilling coffee on them; I
like making someone else fold them.
The road is more shared with a map. I even like the arguments.
"Can't you read a map!?" "Yeah, I can read a map. And I am telling
you, it's this way!" "Okay, we'll try it your way." "Great."
"Fine."
Guided-navigation systems right your wrongs with a soothing voice.
"This is OnStar. May I help you?"
That's great and all. But I miss the tussle. Arguing about which
way to go is part of the fun of getting there. (Isn't it?)