I'm in love with another man. Let me call him Daniel. We met last summer in the South of France, in Provence to be precise, exactitude being something he approves of. I would like to say we bonded in an outdoor cafe over buttery croissant and café crème, or at a chic bistro seated in bentwood chairs with steaming mussels and chilled rosé before us.
No, Daniel and I met through my husband Ron. He introduced us at Marseille airport and then offered him a ride to the village where we were staying.
Daniel makes a good first impression. He is well built and polite, well spoken and persuasive. He exudes confidence and authority. Above all, he has a great-sounding baritone, like the guy in the Men's Wearhouse ad, though in the beginning Daniel refused to speak anything but French, something that could have gotten in the way of our relationship, as my technical French is comme-ci, comme-ca.
In the end, Ron reprogrammed Daniel--the built-in GPS on our car rental--in English with an upper crusty British accent, perfect pitch, clipped cadence and distinguished diction. I'm surprised my American husband went for the haughty English thing, but he is less superficial than me and more interested in results.
When our holiday ended, I mourned leaving Daniel behind. But because I have an open-minded spouse with a penchant for electronic gadgets, Daniel showed up on our doorstep in autumn. I wept with joy. I was the proud owner of the handheld Daniel in a pink leather jacket.
I'm the ideal match for a GPS. Pre-Daniel, the husband and wife scenario went like this:
"Hi," says an assistant.
"Is Ron available?" my voice quivers above roaring traffic.
"He's in a meeting."
"Uh, could I have a quick word? Nothing urgent," I whimper, sticking a finger in my other ear to block out the honking, "I'm just...um...lost."
I blame urban living. I straddled cities car-less most of my life. In Tehran, we had a chauffeur, and Joseph, the Iranian-Armenian bus driver who drove me to school in a VW van. In Edinburgh, I simply memorized the bus number from my boarding school to Princess Street where I shopped for LPs on Saturdays. Oxford was doable by bike. In London, I rode the Tube, in Paris, the Metro, in DC, the other Metro. I never got lost underground.
When I moved to Los Angeles, got a car and ended up in South Central asking for directions, I knew I was in trouble. Ironically, my first job was as a film agent trainee where I started in the mailroom delivering scripts. Though there were occasional highlights, like the time I delivered a screenplay to the Spielberg digs, mostly there were low points, the worse, stuck in a rut on an unpaved canyon road with a trunk full of scripts and nary a signpost.
So, Daniel riding shotgun in my car is the best thing that has happened to me. Our courtship days were gung-ho. We went out all the time, Daniel taking me places I had never been before. He accepted my faults, did everything I asked. He was a formidable listener -- and I can run off -- I no longer felt lonely and getting lost was impossible. I waxed about him nonstop. Post-Daniel, the husband and wife scenario went like this:
"Hi honey," I chirp.
('Turn left on Mansion Road,' goes a muffled Daniel.)
"Hey. Did you find the estate sale?"
"I found three! Daniel is amazing. I just keep punching in the addresses and voila."
"Hmm, maybe he should start paying the bills."
Though he does not do credit card debt, Daniel does marriage counseling, for being on 4-wheels brings out the worse in couples. My husband drives around aimlessly like a Neanderthal looking for a familiar cave, while I roll down my window and shriek at random members of the biped tribe asking for directions.
Now Daniel commands our mobile front seat couch. He gives steadfast guidance for a one-time fee, competent counselor in a compact box. Ron and I no longer squabble at intersections, because Daniel knows we are neither on Venus nor on Mars but on asphalt and he can get us back on track.
Like every committed relationship, ours has its ups and downs.
On the upside, Daniel sends me forth on fresh routes with found confidence. I bloom with the unspoken assurance that he will take care of me through whatever left, right and U-turns life brings. I drive with a certain je ne sait quoi. I make confetti out of MapQuest printouts.
The downside is I grow needy, panicking if I forget him, even on my grocery run. He grates on me at times, especially if I know a straightforward way and he insists on a convoluted route. 'Recalculating...' he repeats, when I ignore him. He can be a pompous ass. If we have a sore disagreement, I'm prone to cut him off, revealing my controlling personality.
Still, we have found a comfortable groove. I love Daniel despite his always being right. He loves me in spite of the fact that without him I'm a mole in daylight steering a Volvo, rooting out maps piled on my passenger seat at traffic lights.
We are like an old married couple.
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Liked your piece!
Or like how to take the off ramps on the 10 freeway to avoid gridlock heading West.
I suppose, that those with road anxiety will now feel haughtily free from their Thomas Guide, but a GPS, will never give you the kinds of moves you need to avoid the daydreaming hordes, putting on eye make up, as they mindlessly swerve in front of you without a signal.
Eventually they all discover the route through Highland Park, to avoid a 110 freeway frozen solid by rain. And intuition, experience, feel come into play, once again to find a quicker way.
I've often thought about a GPS, but of course 99% of the time we're traveling familiar ground. And those few times she might need one I'd rather drive her as she doesn't seem to enjoy the congested roads that I'm so used to.
in the country I always know which way is north and with a single
exception in 22 years of marriage I am always right. However,
every couple I know has a very personal relationship with their
GPS device - arguing with the route chosen by the device rather
than each other. Wonder if I'll every step up to GPS. I actually read
maps looking to discover new routes.