I am rummaging around in the closet when suddenly it hits me. I
don't mean metaphorically, as in it occurs to me. I mean actually,
as in it tumbles from a shelf and bonks me.
Rubbing my head, I look on the floor where the offending object
landed. It is a large, clear bag spilling its contents, which are
uniformly slender and rectangular in shape. Many of them curl at
their edges.
After a moment, I recognize them. Taken together, they comprise a
sentimental journey of where I've been.
Vermont. New Hampshire.
Vermont and
New Hampshire.
Maine.
Florida.
Texas.
Arizona. New
Mexico.
Vancouver.
London.
Paris.
Detroit, of course. And many
other places.
Oh yeah, I think as I sit on the floor going through them.
Maps.
I had forgotten about maps. These days, I search online for the way
to my destination. I print it out. Its paint-by-numbers directions
could not be clearer:
Turn left onto Getlost Blvd., 1.3 miles.
Turn slight right onto WhereamI Dr., 7.4 miles.
Turn left onto Someotherstreet Rd., 3.7 miles.
End at 505 Wherever Ln.
And yet I still get lost. Which is why we have cell phones. "Yeah.
Nick? What? Listen, I can't hear you. Sounds like a great party.
She's what? Uh-huh. Yeah, well, I wish I were there, but those
computer directions ..."
Maps are becoming the vinyl records of our age. Not gone entirely,
like, say, the washing machine with the rollers. But a relic
nonetheless.
Future generations will come across maps and scratch their heads:
Do you think they used these to tell time?
The problem with maps is, well, just about everything. They rip.
They only show in detail one particular thing, so you need a
thousand of them. And you can never fold them back to their
original form.
But I am not here to bury maps. I am here to praise them.