With visions of ocean waves breaking on ivory shores at sundown in beautiful Newport, Oregon, I dropped the gearshift of our trusty Expedition into drive and we were off. A mere two thousand miles of touring glorious America the beautiful, and we’d be there. And with Joan the TomTom, our now trusted GPS pathfinder pointing the way, we were (almost) certain to find our way west to seek any fortunes that lay in our pathway. That’s the nature of visions. But just between you and me, a person who wants to remain sane will allow for some minor deviations in theory vs. reality.
By now Patti and I had thoroughly put Joan through her paces and we felt reasonably comfortable in putting our welfare on the open road in her hands. But we had traced out our route on a conventional road Atlas just the same. And we had noticed interesting differences in the way men and women utilize maps and GPS devices.
Men will tend to argue with the way maps are drawn, and even much more so with the way maps are interpreted by female map readers. Full blown debates may develop when females try to give directions to a frustrated male driver from a map. The classic example is given when Lucille Ball instructs Desi Arnez (in the movie “The Long Trailer”) to “turn right here left.”
And now with the advent of 21st century technology comes a machine giving the instructions. Men readily tend to take the machine-generated instructions as gospel and women become indignant when (altogether too often) they see their own instructions challenged and criticized for being incorrect or hard to follow. This becomes (much) more of a factor the sixth time that (male) jerk becomes absolutely thrilled with how well that little machine does the little lady’s former job.
But some women manage to find a way to stay in the loop of the navigating function. For example Bill Cosby recently related the following episode on The Tonight Show. Another couple and the Cosby’s drove to a restaurant in a car for a social outing using a GPS device. The other couple sat in the front of the car, and quite naturally the man did the driving, with the woman assuming her traditional role of observer and critic. From time to time, the machine would give instructions to turn one way or another. For instance the machine might instruct. “ in 500 yards, turn left”, and later, “in 600 yards turn right.” After each machine-given instruction, the other person’s wife would carefully repeat the same instruction to him, word for word.
After they arrived at the restaurant, Cosby called the other man aside and asked if it wasn’t distracting to have each and every instruction given by the machine repeated in such a manner by his wife. To which the man replied, “what machine?”
Despite some operational glitches such as those mentioned, this type of repetitive system might tend to promote domestic tranquility when husband and wife travel together. With perhaps as many as 99+ per cent of our GPS device’s instructions being clear and accurate, the casual observer might question what could possibly go wrong (go wrong, go wrong.)
The reader should none-the-less be cautioned that maverick instructions can occasionally get into the mix. For example, in two or three cases on interstate highways, Joan has generated instructions out of the blue to “turn around when possible” for no apparent reason. And one time in Washington state while traveling next to a cliff rising 1,000 feet straight up on our right side, we were instructed to “turn right”. (Perhaps if Joan were to preface the latter instruction to first get some dynamite and a jackhammer, it might work out.) And in New Mexico when there was no intersecting road for miles, we were instructed “in 250 yards, turn left”. In our experience the maverick instructions occurred primarily in rural areas where we easily could tell that they were incorrect.
Occasionally Joan will use unfamiliar terminology. For example, when approaching an on ramp to an interstate that one needs to take, Joan might say something such as “in 250 yards turn right and then take the motorway”. We figure that “motorway” must mean something similar to freeway.
In spite of all the teething problems that could arise in working out a viable system of travel, we pulled into Brookings, Oregon about three days later. And after making certain that the Pacific Ocean hadn’t moved or dried up, we looked forward to feeding the seagulls. Patti ceremoniously threw out the first slice of bread to the first gull to greet us outside our room, and the one gull quickly attracted 30 others with its cries for more.
With a rapidly diminishing supply of bakery supplies on hand, we quickly deduced that we needed more, and set out to do our part to bolster the demand for inexpensive bread. By dragging main we located a grocery store known simply as Grocery Outlet. It apparently met my number one shopping goal of making economical purchases (Patti calls it being cheap) by advertising “Bargains Only”.
We bought four loaves for a total cost of a little over three dollars. As we were leaving the outlet we also noticed that the store had a wine section, and one brand in particular caught our eye. Instead of having such traditional labels as Rose’ or Zinfindel, it had the exotic name of “Smashed Grapes”, and sold for the exorbitant price of $2.99. Despite my interest, Patti didn’t seem at all impressed.
We went back to our room near the ocean where we discovered that the number of squawking gulls would swell to perhaps 100 or more whenever we tossed out several pieces of bread at once. When we threw multiple pieces the individual gull that managed to gulp down a piece or two of bread before others could devour the same morsel could expect to get pecked on the back of its head by slower disgruntled competitors. Apparently neither sportsmanship nor good table manners seemed to be a part of a gull’s dining practice.
The political affiliations as expressed were pretty evenly divided between those who were concerned that Hillary Clinton might become President and those who felt that she could not possibly do any worse than the current administration. The local residents asked about my position on the matter, and I replied that some of my friends were for Hillary and some of them were against her, and that I tended to side with my friends.
The Beachfront RV park has 180 paved RV spaces and half of then are right on the beach. All RV spaces bordering the ocean rent for $30 a night and have 30 channels of TV. The only thing that was keeping me from enjoying one of these scenic but inexpensive RV spaces by the sea was the fact that I had no RV.
I had to be careful in selecting one of my two hats from my traveling wardrobe for any one day. If I wore my customary (old) Northwestern hat, I was asked how Nebraska was doing this year. If I wore my Oklahoma Sooners hat, I was asked what in the world was a Sooner. (Apparently football doesn’t quite have the following in Oregon that it does in Oklahoma.) In the future I plan to take a fisherman’s hat or one that says “Peg’s Furniture” on the trip.
At one of the many pier facilities located nearby, Patti and I were warned that one of the local sea lions “was on the peck.” He had selected one of the narrowest parts of the dock at the marina for his afternoon nap, and would charge anyone seeking to pass by. These creatures are perhaps eight feet long, can easily weigh over a thousand pounds, and thanks to federal protection laws tend to have a free run of the place..
In the Oregon and Washington area, any kind of a private structure located on the beach will command a price approaching a million dollars. Several of the guys in Brookings offered to sell their beach house to me at the sacrifice price of $800,000. To be offered such a bargain made me feel like a million dollars – all green and wrinkled.
Coming up on the Coffee House Philosopher, our tour continues to Cape Foulweather (Captain Cook gave it the great sounding name), Seattle, and the Little Bighorn. And as Roy Rogers used to say, “until we meet again, may the good Lord take a liking to you.”
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