It was still dark. The night sky showed no signs of the approach of morning. It was cold. Extremely cold. Bone chilling, toe removing, nasal passage aching cold. The sort of cold that makes you have new respect for every single human who has ever lived in a cold climate without central heating. We stood patiently waiting for the light in the car to go on indicating that the driver was approaching. This after he had told us that we were ready to depart some fifteen minutes before. Neither of us spoke. We waited, waited, changed places, waited, moaned .. sighed .. muttered ... mumbled .. and then the doors unlocked. Piling into the car meant that we had to move a seat forward, make a space among the luggage and try and decide if there was a risk of having that thing that happens if you can't move your legs for eighteen hours.
The driver climbed into the car. He checked the mirror. Turned on the engine. Checked the mirrors. Asked if we had everything. Reversed - asked if we had everything and then headed off down the road.
The road trip had begun. Fortunately the first half hour on the road passed without anything interesting happening. We knew the route so there was no need to use the printed directions nor the GPS. The only complaint was that it was damn early.
Day light slipped over the horizon. The traffic increased as we headed onto route 290. Soon after we merged onto 290 there was an exit that looked as if it could be the one we wanted. The navigator (the term to be used from this point on) was about to suggest that it was not the correct one when the driver (otherwise known as The Spouse) took it. The navigator was called upon to verify that he had done the correct thing. She peered at the printed directions. It seemed that the off-ramp had been the correct one to take but the driver was uncertain that she was accurately reading the directions. Three miles on an executive decision was uttered: the route was the correct one.
A collective sigh of two at the utterance. Calm descended. I-Pod was turned on, headset attached to head, radio on ... a gentle snore or two from the front passenger seat. The driver ( who had only had a few hours sleep )glanced at the front seat passenger. A dark cloud appeared above his head. Sleeping was not on the list of approved activities for passengers - especially for the one in the front seat.
"Which is the next exit?" he asked in a stern voice.
"What?" muttered the passenger in a warm daze of napping.
"What is the next exit?"
"Exit?"
"You know the thing you take when you have to go onto another road!"
"27 .."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes," desperate glance down at directions. Exit 27 was correct.
"And then?"
"We merge onto ..." route number given.
"For how long?"
"How long what?"
"How long are we are that route?"
Reading in the car is not an activity that I believe is generally encouraged by those who have to clean up matter that comes out of the body when one feels nauseous. The reader bravely rereads the directions. Her stomach lurches. The question is repeated with a sense of irritation. She responds with a "ah-uh."
"Ah-uh," the driver sighs. "How far is ah-uh?"
"Ten miles," the navigator glances out of the window in the hope that it will help settle her stomach.
"From where?"
"From where?"
"From where does the ten miles begin?"
"From the time we get onto it!" tone has changed.
"Don't get annoyed," driver's tone is less warm.
"I'm not annoyed," navigator over emphasises the word annoyed.
Silence for ten miles. Dozing navigator keeps half an eye on the road trying to judge when she must pretend to be alert. Exit approaches. Exit safely taken. On the correct road.
"Are you sure this is the correct road?" driver asks with the you in the sentence underlined.
"Yes," navigator is mastering the art of appearing confident whilst verifying the facts with the directions with fingers crossed.
"Okay," the single word sends a chill down the spine of the navigator.
Music turned up. Doze resumed. Driver casts icy glares at navigator who pretends not to be aware of them. Rear passenger sings along with headset annoying the mature front seat passenger. Reminds herself that it's been a very long time since a road trip was undertaken with offspring whom she cherishes and loves. Making new memories, she tells herself.
"What is the next exit?"
"38C" confident answer.
"Sure?"
"Since I am reading off the directions that you found and printed .."
"No need to be nasty," driver's eyes are no doubt rolling as he speaks.
"Well it doesn't matter if I read it once or fifteen times it stays the same!"
"Not if you misread it," the comment is welcomed with cold silence.
Exit 38C approaches. The car slows down. Nervous glance to the right. A nudge from the back seat into the small of the back of the navigator. The driver's eyes narrow.
"I don't think this looks right ..."
"Well we won't know unless we take it," defensive response.
Car cartwheels down ramp. Directions say that a left must be taken at the fork at the bottom of the ramp. No fork. No left turn permitted.
Silence.
Car turns right. Travels for a half mile. Pure suburbia. No major road visible. Could we be in Salem, MA? Silence.
Car turns around with driver emitting heavy sighs. Navigator clutches paper with directions printed on it. Scours the print to check the exit number. 38C is there in bold letters. The offspring sighs and begins to dial sibling in order to update the betting.
The side roads disclose nothing of interest. We are off the track that we should be beating. Fortunately there are signs of American civilisation. We spot the enormous yellow M, there is the hint of over-used fat in the air so we know that all is not lost. A highway must be nearby.
To the horror of the navigator the GPS is removed from its hiding place. Her hands twitch, an eye is seen to go squint, a nervous twitch develops in her right cheek. Every bad memory of GPS misdirection crashes into her memory.
Wheels spin, smoke comes out of ears and we roar up a road that bears a resemblance to an on-ramp whilst the individual in the rear seat makes offerings. The highway is where it was when we left it for the small time warp experience of middle class USA.
As the car goes on down the highway with the driver considering if he should do what he wants which is to drive and curse at 90 mph or be more staid and mutter at 70 mph, the navigator reads the directions. The words exit 38C are still there on the paper. The local electrical department observes a dip in the power supply as the navigator recalls the incident when on the way to York Beach we took the wrong off ramp because we read the number correctly but sadly it was the wrong state! Twenty five miles on ... there it was exit 38C in the correct state.
The GPS saga was about to begin .... The daughter sighs, turns up her I-Pod and settles down for the long, long drive.
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