Whit Andrews

OK, so my sense of direction is definitively the worst of any living Gartner analyst. I freely admit this. This is why I have as a standing request on my rental car profile that I get a GPS Thingie in the car.

I got in the car this morning in South San Francisco, which is exactly like San Francisco in that it has buildings — which, for the most part, cost a lot less to sleep in than the ones in San Francisco do. I turned on my GPS Thingie. I then keyed in the address where I was going. No, actually, that’s not true. I keyed in two addresses where I was not going, using my laser-like intellect, and then I got the right one. And then I started driving.

You may ask, where were you going? And I will answer, “I was going to the Hyatt, where I was to meet a sales rep.” And that might lead you to ask, then, not unreasonably, “Why is your car in Oakland?”

Therein, as I believe Geoffrey Chaucer or someone like him once said, lies a tale. And you will note that the happy pilgrims found their way to Canterbury without a hitch, unlike me.

So I missed a left fork on the way into San Francisco. And this was when the automated female voice began to sound a little stressed. The right fork went left first, you see, right there as you climb off of 280, I think it was. So I was no longer on the way to the Hyatt. That was OK, she said, and she thought of a new way I could go. And so I did go that way, and then, strangely, I found myself on a Really Big Bridge. And when I looked back, I felt more or less the way a stowaway might have felt as they looked back from the aft deck of [Famous English Ship Goes Here] and saw Land’s End receding into the distance, layering tees and tanks flapping in the wind. I saw behind me the marvelous San Francisco skyline, including Twin Peaks. I was not wowed, as this meant I was on the Bay Bridge.

The female voice grew rather tight.

She suggested I turn around on Yerba Buena Island.

Did you know that the exit for Yerba Buena Island is closed? It is! You can get off at Treasure Island, which is kind of the same thing, except with Treasure instead of Good Yerbas, but you have to be competent to know that.

The voice grew strident. It told me to turn around in Oakland, and this time, No More Funny Business, Mister Analyst. I watched eagerly for my U-Turn, but just where it was supposed to be was instead a Used Car Lot, filled with late model cars, parked nose to tail and facing San Francisco. I made most of the U-Turn, and sat and watched. Nothing moved. Now, see, in New York? I would have known right away it was not a car lot but a traffic jam, because drivers would have been using the local argot — “honk honk honk” — which means, “none of us is moving, and I blame all of you who can hear me.” In California, it was eerie and silent, like a muted YouTube video.

I called someone.

They suggested that I take the BART. That’s the local train. Some kinda train, I dunno if it means the Engineer-in-Chief’s criteria for high-speed, but it was WAY HIGHER SPEED thant the car lot. Now, this is when Herself the GPS lady would come through for me! I keyed in an intersection and she told me, GO LEFT! I almost did — but it ended in a car lot. I DROVE FORWARD. She kept saying LEFT, LEFT, LEFT, and I went right — and she congratulated me.

I found the BART.

That’s why my car is in Oakland. Parking Space #223, which is where I was not allowed to park until I started to tell the nice police lady the story I have told you. She said “PARKANYWHEREYOUWANTJUSTFORTHELOVEOFGODSTOPTALKING” and drove away, and who can blame her?

Do I blame anyone? I do not. The GPS lady cannot know everything, especially not that I am a mo’ron, or that exists are closed. I do wish for a search interface — but I always wish for a search interface, it’s what I’m like.

Now if only I can find a different white Toyota Corolla to drive back to the rental place, it’s all good.