do you know where you're going to?

What a glorious time to be alive! Cutting-edge technology is rampant among us. We live in an age where the advancements and achievements in science, mechanics, and computers make new discoveries obsolete almost as soon as they are introduced.

While planning vacations over the past few years, Mrs. Pincus and I have noticed how many common tasks have been made obsolete by the advancements in technology. First of all, we no longer require the services of a travel agent, as options are easily accessible and arrangements are easily made and confirmed on the internet. Driving maps to our destinations are no longer required. As long as we know the address — or really just the name — of our destination, the GPS that is built into our cellphone will guide us. It will even figure out how to reroute if we make a wrong turn... all while giving directions in a friendly voice.

Of course, instruments of technology are only as good as the user.

On our recent trip to New Orleans, Mrs. P and I rented a car in order to see areas not readily volunteered by the city's Bureau of Tourism. The desk clerk at the car rental company offered an "add-on" GPS as part of our rental package, which we respectfully declined (along with collision insurance. That's a scam like "undercoating" when you buy a car or "radon testing" when you buy a house). On previous trips, I would print out pages and pages of driving directions, carefully filing them in order of my pre-determined sightseeing schedule. Now, dispensing with the printouts, I merely maintain a list of various points of interest, ready to punch them into the GPS on my phone. (Because she loves to drive, I am like the "navigator" to my wife's "pilot.")

After a few days of tooling around The Big Easy, we got a feel for the lay of the land. While returning from Metairie Cemetery, just north of the touristy French Quarter, we decided we had some time to drive past 1239 First Street, the former residence of author Anne Rice, located in the nearby quiet Garden District neighborhood. I carefully typed the address into the GPS function. Within seconds, calculations began and a route was plotted. I was alarmed when an estimated time of arrival was displayed at five hours and forty minutes. "How could that be?," I thought, "We are no more than fifteen minutes from our hotel and the Garden District is just a few blocks past that." I tried again and the same result appeared. The map displayed on my backlit screen looked correct, although it traced a blue path alongside Interstate 10 instead of instructing us to use the highway. But it still indicated that we would not arrive for another five hours. That was impossible! The day before, we had traveled 140 miles on Route 90 to the Tabasco Factory and that only took two and a half hours. Now, it was showing us that a two-mile drive would take five hours!

I ignored the incessant commands of "turn left in one thousand feet" and "in a quarter-mile, turn right," and just followed the map. We became frustrated when a request to "turn left" would send us the wrong way on a one-way street. How could this system not be up-to-date? These streets didn't become one-way yesterday! Finally, we arrived at our destination and, just as I figured, it had only taken ten minutes from our starting point.

Later in the day, we had the same trouble when trying to find a restaurant I knew was near our Poydras Street hotel. Even after several tries, my GPS repeatedly gave the ETA as three hours. Once again I was puzzled. I turned my phone on and off a few times. I removed the battery and blew on the terminals, hopefully removing some circuit-scrambling dust. But to no avail. I received the same result. The mapping was correct, but the times were off by hours!

Then, the ever-rational Mrs. P offered up a single question. "Do you have it set to driving directions or walking directions?," she asked.

"Huh?," I eloquently replied.

I checked the device. The little "car" icon was "grayed out." Next to it, the little "walking man" icon glowed brightly. I mashed the glass of my phone, selecting "car" and deselecting "walking man" in one motion. Instantly, the time on the map recalculated to three minutes. Three correct minutes.

At the same time, the "user error" light lit up in my brain.

I sheepishly directed my wife to "make a left here." I noticed she was shaking her head.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

walking to new orleans

My wife and I just returned from New Orleans, sneaking back from the 60 degree weather to the Philadelphia area in between two winter storms. It was our first trip to The Crescent City and, while we had a good time, I will be the first one to admit that we don't vacation like most people. Mrs. Pincus and I do not drink. As far as eating, I am a vegetarian and although Mrs. P eats meat, we observe the laws of kashrut, so no meat unless it is certified kosher*, no shellfish or any other shit-eating bottom-feeder, thus eliminating a good portion of the cuisine for which The Big Easy is renown.

One evening, after a full day of exploring a couple of New Orleans' famous cemeteries, Mrs. P was bushed. She headed back to our hotel room. I offered to go out to pick up dinner. I had read about a place called The Gumbo Shop that offered a vegetarian version of the signature Creole dish. The restaurant was close by, just off of Jackson Square. Mrs. Pincus curled up under the blankets and I set out on my mission.

I'm going to make a confession. I am not the most patient person that ever lived. Especially when I am walking. I am a determined walker. I do not stroll. I do not meander. I do not saunter. In the morning, when I exit my train, I proceed with a purposeful gait. I am not on a happy jaunt with a Straw Man and a Tin Man towards The Emerald City. I am headed to work. I don't like to get behind someone who is weaving unsteadily across the sidewalk like they are already drunk at 8:30 in the morning. You wanna take your morning constitutional? Save it for the early dawn hours on a beach somewhere.

I crossed over to Canal Street making my way towards Bourbon Street. I dodged a few of the many homeless that littered the narrow thoroughfares of the French Quarter. The sidewalks were beginning to fill with inebriated tourists, reeling all over the pavements, some stopping indiscriminately and for no apparent reason. Grrrr! Sidewalks should be treated like highways. Move to the right lane if you're going to move slowly. The left lane is for passing. Look, I realize that the New Orleans tourist area is filled with tourists and that tourists are in no rush because they are on vacation, but please! How about a little courtesy for other types of tourists. Like me.

I made a right onto Bourbon Street. I immediately thought, "So! This is where they moved Sodom and Gomorrah!" I was practically the only person who wasn't currently draining a container of alcohol. Don't get me wrong. I don't mind if people drink and make merry. But do they have to do it while they imitate a ball in a pinball machine? The French Quarter sidewalks are narrow, but, luckily the street was closed to motor vehicles. Pedestrians (those that could still walk), taking full advantage of the traffic situation, staggered and careened from one curb to the other.

I weaved in and out, carefully avoiding bodily contact with the hoards of drunkards. Just ahead, I spotted The Gumbo Shop's sign and located the entrance. A long queue line of potential patrons had clogged the entrance way. I cut an uncompromising path to the hostess podium and inquired about placing a take-out order. After a brief wait, the smiling bartender appeared with a plastic-handled bag stuffed with steaming, fragrant gumbo and a full, crusty baguette. I exited and rerouted myself to the wider, yet just as congested, Decatur Street parallel to the Mississippi Riverfront. I threaded my way through the tipsy crush of people, none of whom were moving in anything close to a straight line.

The foot traffic thinned out as I crossed Poydras Street. I could once again walk my normal walk. Quick. Straight. Determined.

Yeah. I know it's me.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

*Please don't even start with that "blessed by a rabbi" bullshit. You have the internet. Look it up.