23 Aug 2009
"Drive."
I'd hoped that the GPS I'm paying $11/day for would be more useful. Instead it's talking like a hijacker while I try to wrap my head around being on the wrong side of the car, on the wrong side of the road, on the wrong side of the world. My "arriving drive", as it's called, is only a few miles, but I'm finding it.. challenging. As the lanes merge and split just slightly faster than I can process, I'm swearing calmly. Not "FUUUUUUCK!" so much as "Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck."
Controlled panic: it's almost a flow state.
"In 0.2 miles TURN LEFT TURN LEFT"
This is information that I would love to have had, oh, about five miles ago, so that I could get in lane and run the turn-left pattern through my head again. But that's not how they roll here; TomTom apparently values spontaneity over advance planning. Eventually I learn to adapt, knowing that my perky, sadistic navigator is going to spring things on me at the last second.
Still, after a couple of days and a couple of long drives I relax at the wheel. And when things are easy, we're almost friends.
"Continue. 78 miles."
That's what I like to hear.