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This is the first in a series I've suddenly felt like writing, since most of my life has been spent lately on airplanes.
I don't love driving in places I don't know well: parking lots, shopping malls, Los Angeles. I take cabs, or order a car service, or convince my husband to drive. But my colleague, Kristin, and I had a slew of business meetings recently in L.A., some we had together and some not. It seemed to make the most sense to drive.
Though I had Mapquested every leg of my trip there were inevitable cancellations and time changes the night before, rendering my printed work useless. I sprang for GPS, thank God, and shrugged and said "Yeah whatever," when they asked me if I was OK with a sporty compact. This was my first mistake.
Poor Kristin, who is easily six foot three in heels, couldn't even fit in the passenger's side of our two-seater.
"I'm sure I can make this work, somehow," she said, bringing her knees uncomfortably close to her head. The last time she had to be in that position was probably when she gave birth to her son. She couldn't so much as fit her wallet in the front seat with us, so she stuffed her belongings in the back
"You are on it!" she said to me, I suspect, because directions and logistics are not my forte. This was positive re-enforcement. Though I struggled to see over the wheel, we managed to make it onto the highway, with the GPS indicating we would make our meeting with plenty of time to spare.
We chatted about random things as I kept my eye on the GPS; I wondered for a moment how I would have managed without it. We'd been warned that the traffic was slow in L.A., though I found it odd that even as traffic sped up we continued at a 20 MPH clip.
Suddenly the engine light began to blink.
"Uhhhh, Kristin. I think something's wrong here."
The car lost all acceleration; we had to coast off the highway, onto a random street.
"This isn't happening," Kristin said, trying to hold it together.
"Re-calibrating route. Re-calibrating route." The GPS responded.
Though we managed to swap out the bad car an hour later, Kristin had to call and tell her contact that we would likely be late. We did salvage the meeting, but I input the wrong address into the GPS and we had to scramble to get there--scramble being a highly subjective word, since we were unable to drive faster than 18 MPH. I drove with the blinkers on; Kristin apologized profusely to anyone who passed us wishing we were dead.
The remainder of the day was equally strewn with problems: One of our appointments had been rescheduled the night before, so Kristin and I had to split up. I dropped her off near her building, where there seemed to be an opening to park--next to a dumpster. Though I had over an hour before my next meeting, which was five miles away, I was stuck in traffic and driving about a block a minute. A colleague had called for some help on a proposal that was due in a few hours. I tried to provide usable feedback while inching ahead to my meeting. The GPS Lady recalibrated my arrival time every minute; I was dangerously close to being late for my next meeting too. With all this down time, I dug into my purse for a Balance Bar, ripped off the wrapper with my teeth and scarfed the thing down. Nothing sucks more than having your stomach growl during a presentation.
The assistant of the executive I was meeting gave me very specific instructions, including making a right once I saw a billboard. I saw three. I guess I should have asked him to be more specific: a billboard of what?
The first one was a no-go; I probably should have noticed sooner that I had entered an amusement park. The second one was correct; I checked in with security. In addition to ensuring everyone's safety, these people serve another useful purpose--you can always blame them for being a few minutes late: "Wow, that's some security you have down there. Took us 15 minutes just to get my name tag!"
An aside: Be very careful with these name tags. Though you might want to just throw them away or toss them into your purse, sometimes you actually have to show this thing to a receptionist when you get to the receptionist's office. I
