Remember maps? Old-fashioned, fold-out paper maps the size of a beach towel? My husband wanted to buy one to navigate our road trip through the Sacramento Valley. I stared at him for 47 seconds before stating, “We have Google Maps.”
“It’s not the same thing,” Tom said, sadly.
I reminded him I have the orienteering skills of a baby sea turtle running away from the ocean. Handing me a paper map is the equivalent of asking me to decipher ancient Egyptian. Although, to be fair, Google Maps can be equally confusing. Don’t tell me to turn left in 450 feet. That means nothing to me. You might as well say, “Turn left after 850 toothbrushes.”
Unfortunately for him, there were no road maps to be found. So, with phone in hand, I guided us through Chico, Stockton, Napa Valley and Yosemite. I don’t know which direction we drove. North? West? Up? Sideways? Sure.
Road trips should be a great time to catch up on my reading, but Tom doesn’t know how to sit in silence for longer than 1.3 seconds. Even though he hasn’t lived in California for decades, he had a story to share about every city we passed.
“About 15 years ago, there was a serial killer arrested in Yuba City,” he said. “Look it up.”
I put my book down and switched my phone from Google Maps to Wikipedia to learn about the murderer, Juan Corona. But, dear reader, he was arrested in 1971. Just a touch more than 15 years ago.
Tom can hold a conversation with himself for at least 30 miles. It’s a stream of consciousness speaking that is amazing to behold. Let me give you an example:
“This is a great Glen Campbell song. Jimmy Webb wrote a lot of songs for Glen Campbell. Did I tell you Merrilee Rush was the first musician I saw perform live? Can you find yacht rock on the radio? Where does that driver think he’s going? Move over, scumbag! I’ve never been to Yosemite. I’ve heard it’s hill-arious.”
When I noticed a line of cars on our bumper, I suggested he drive a bit faster, although he insisted he was going the exact speed limit. I told him that was the problem.
Remember when you taught your kids to drive and you kept pushing an imaginary brake pedal on the passenger side of the car because you thought your teenager was going to drive you into a building? Well, I have an imaginary accelerator on my side of the car that I press when Tom’s going the exact speed limit.
But once we hit Yosemite, or any mountain range, my husband turns into Dominic Toretto of “Fast and Furious” fame, Tokyo-drifting off cliffs and taking corners at the speed of sound. I was grabbing the door handle, not sure if I was trying to keep it closed or if I was preparing to jump out if we launched into Yosemite Valley.
On our way through wine country, we stopped at the Napa Valley Welcome Center to get ideas for which wineries to visit and where to get a good Chardonnay. The woman at the counter whipped out a map of the area. Tom’s eyes widened with glee. He used so many exclamation points, I thought his heart might burst with joy.
“Look!” he said. “She has a paper map! Cartographers really know how to draw the line!”
We did a lot of driving in California, which could be considered relationship bonding or time served, depending on the situation. Tom still swears by paper maps. I’m dedicated to Google. But we always find our way.
Originally published in The City Journals
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