When I first envisioned my road trip, I had an idealized and impractical mental image: I would rent a jeep to cross the nation as God intended Americans to travel -- loudly, and with as little fuel efficiency as possible.  But my parents worried about their only child, with his poor sense of direction, alone in the nearly 4,000,000 square miles of America. They lent me my father's new car, a Toyota Prius, for the journey.  The car is safe, a hippie hybrid, and most importantly to my parents, has a global positioning system.  I initially thought this feature would be mildly useful but I eventually came to trust it with my life.

Each morning before getting on the road, I entered the locations I planned to travel to that day onto the screen and the car calculated the optimum route, announced in a calm female voice how far I had to drive and how long it would take.  I've always preferred female voices for computer systems, but this is not the case for all people.  In Italy, the manufacturers of cars with built in navigation systems discovered that the Italian men were unwilling to take driving instructions from a woman, so they switched the default voice from female to male.

As best I could tell, the computer's voice was a real woman's, recorded and chopped into modular pieces to form the sentences needed.  As a result, the car spoke in that halting, but comforting way of many electronics:

``It is. Two. Hundred. Miles. To your destination.''

Rapidly -- and in spite of my rational desire not to -- I began to think of the car as a `she' and not an `it.'  I didn't want to imbue the inanimate car with a human will, for I believe that anthropomorphization is a crutch of the primitive mind.  I scoff at people who see conscious (and often malicious) intent in the actions of their computers and photocopiers.  But, after hours of listening to the car's instructions, the on-board computer and overhead satellites became a collective `she.' 

When on the phone with my mother I made a concerted effort to call the car `it' and not `she,' or worse still, `Pria,' the name my brain settled on, lest my mother think that my isolation was causing me psychological problems.  But on the phone with `Noelani' I slipped when she asked how the car handled.

``Good,'' I said. ``Occasionally she doesn't know all of the local roads, but overall... uh... it works well.''

``She?'' Asked Noelani. ``Well then, I look forward to meeting her.''

Just as a real passenger would be, Pria was most active at the beginning and the end of each day's drive, either giving me lots of directions on how to get out of a city center and onto the highway or, at the end, suggesting places to stay for the night. On the open road, she was quiet, thinking whatever thoughts computer-car-satellite systems think in their spare CPU cycles.

And, just like a real navigator would, she expressed annoyance when I did not follow her instructions -- as often happened.

``At the next.  Intersection.  Turn.  Right.''

I'd go straight and miss the turn, forcing Pria to recalculate the optimum journey anew.  It didn't take long -- perhaps four seconds -- but it was just long enough to make her sound like a weary, but polite navigator.

Pause.

``In.  Three.  Quarters.  Of a mile.  Turn.  Right.''


Pria took passive-aggressive revenge on my failure to follow her instructions by allowing me to annoy myself.  Her controls for the radio and climate lay on the steering wheel.  While this seemed like a convenience, I grew to hate it.  The ability to change the temperature, song or volume with little more than a thought bread constant discontent.

`Is this exactly the temperature that I want?  What about one degree cooler?'

click!

Five minutes later:

`No, just a tad too cold.  Two degrees warmer.'

click!  click!

`Nope, just a bit too warm.  One degree cooler.'

click!

Infinite loop.

The same with the volume of songs volume.  click!  Too soft? click!  Next song?  click!  click!  click!  Self-agitation became such a crushing force that I searched though the manual for a way to disable the steering wheel buttons but, alas, none existed.  Had Pria been my own and not my father's, I would have pulled her off the road, torn open the steering wheel and ripped out the wires myself.

Even worse, Pria always showed the distance to the next destination.  When you want to just zone out and drive for hours, having a screen mark your progress to tenth-of-a-mile accuracy dilates time.

`Only five hundred, fifty seven point one miles to go!'

`Only five hundred, fifty seven point zero miles to go!'

`Only five hundred, fifty six point nine miles to go!'

I could turn off the display but, curse you Pria, a button to turn it back on rested beneath my thumb on the steering wheel.  I'd try not to press it, but it was like trying not to scratch an itch.  Sooner or later you either go mad from trying not to or scratch without realizing.

However, as in any relationship, it's easier to complain than to praise.  Thanks to Pria's ability to predict the travel time to any destination, I was able to see 30% more sights than I would have otherwise.  And that she could always find the way, and get a hotel at night, reduced my stress by 95%.  I would never go on the road without her or one of her relatives ever again.

But, when you spend so much time with someone, you eventually get into a fight.

After about a week on the road, I began to feel isolated and worn out.  The more human Pria became the more I became a tourist robot, programmed to drive in hundred-mile stretches then photograph whatever it sees.  This feeling was strongest at Yellowstone National Park, a thoroughly overwhelming place that my brain couldn't handle -- my input buffer was full and writing to long-term memory couldn't keep up.

A smart man would have stopped, checked into a hotel at the park, and relaxed for a spell.  Not me.  I wanted to push on.  Noelani would be in Seattle waiting for me in a few days' time, and I wanted to see her as soon as possible.  I wanted to be on the other side of our inevitably awkward meeting. 
 
At Yellowstone, I parked in one of ten lots so I could perform my robo-tourist duty of capturing the obligatory Old Faithful shot.  I watched the geyser with a focused lens and unfocused eyes and returned to the parking lot to find Pria.

But I couldn't.  I couldn't remember where I parked her.  Couldn't even remember parking.  I walked for an hour, in the many parking lots repeatedly pressing the car-lock button on my key chain, hoping to hear the beep! beep! of Pria letting me know the door unlocked. 

The afternoon sun beat down.  That morning I ate poorly and my weakened mind became confused.  I must have heard the beep! beep! a dozen times before it finally passed through my memory buffer into actual awareness.  I got in the car, throwing my backpack on the seat and drove off.

Bing!  Bing!  Bing!

Pria binged at me as I drove but I couldn't figure out why.

Bing!

I was tired.

Bing!

Sun stroked.

Bing!

Depressed.

Bing!

Confused.

Bing!

Worried about Noelani.

Bing!

And

Bing!

unable

Bing!

to figure

Bing!

out why

Bing!

Pria

Bing!

was binging at me.

Bing!  Bing!  Bing!

I slammed the breaks. ``What is it you goddamned bitch!?''

`Whoa.'

I had just yelled at an inanimate object.  Yelled at it like it really was a person.  (Anthropomorphization is a crutch of the primitive mind.)  I got out of the car, splashed water on my face, and closed my eyes.  It was my backpack.  The car registered the backpack as the weight of a passenger -- and the seat belt sensor was not active. 

I got back in the car, took the backpack off the seat and the binging stopped.

``Sorry Pria -- I think we need a few days apart.''

I consulted my maps and settled on a location: Canada.  In the frozen North I would vacation from my vacation.

I entered `Waterton, Canada' onto the screen.

``It is.  Four. Hundred. Fifty.  Two.  Miles.  To your destination.''

 

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Copyright © 2007 Wellington Grey


This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 License.

Origional header photograph by Wellington Grey.