You’d think by now I’d have figured out how to read my dashboard compass—after all, “N” is north, “S” is south, and so on. But somehow, every time I get in the car, the meaning of those little letters evaporates like a morning mist. And today, planning to drive deep into Southern Quebec with my wife sound asleep beside me, I was feeling every bit as lost as a first-time tourist without a clue.
When we left Ontario, I’d gone the usual route, so to speak, summoning the trusty OnStar system to guide me with its familiar, Southern-tinged soprano drawl. I’d always liked the OnStar voice—a little rough around the edges, like the GPS equivalent of a truck stop waitress who could steer you right even if you didn’t know which way was up. But once we crossed the border into Quebec, things got… strange.
The Southern drawl suddenly morphed into a strong Quebecois French accent that sounded like a bouncer at a Montreal nightclub. One minute OnStar was saying, “Take the next left, hon,” and the next, in joual, it was, “Prends la prochaine à droite,” in a baritone voice. I started feeling a creeping doubt, wondering if this digital duo really knew where we were headed.
So, in a panic, I hit the button for Google Maps. Maybe a second opinion would calm my nerves. Google fired up in the crisp, British, polite and proper female accent that I had chosen. “Head northeast for 3.2 kilometers,” she said, sounding like Mary Poppins in digital form.
But then it happened—the apps started to argue.
“Y’all need to take the next left in five miles,” said OnStar in that friendly twang.
“Correction,” Google snapped, going spare. “Head east for eight kilometers, not miles, please. Metric system, darling.”
Before I knew it, they were bickering over distance and units, with OnStar drawling about “miles” and Google tsking back in clipped syllables about “kilometers.” I was sitting there, helpless, like a referee at an international summit gone horribly wrong, wondering if I’d end up in Vermont instead of my Quebec destination.
In the throes of confusion, I thought maybe I’d get a third app to break the tie. So, I fired up Waze. It chimed in with a sunny tone and immediately pointed out a speed trap up ahead.
That only added fuel to the fire.
“You’ve got about four miles ’til the radar, so y’all better slow down,” OnStar warned.
“It’s 6.4 kilometers, you daft cowpoke!” barked Google.
“Now, now, everyone—just look out for the SQ and we’ll all be fine,” Waze chimed in, sounding all too cheerful as it added something about detouring to avoid an “unusually aggressive” SQ squad car lurking around the border.
And then, from the depths of my wife’s purse, came yet another voice—a deep, commanding voice, booming loud enough to wake her.
“Turn left, now!” it growled, with an authority that made me flinch.
My wife stirred, bleary-eyed and looked at her phone.
“Oh no,” she muttered. “I forgot… I downloaded FordPass by mistake.”
“FordPass?” I said, staring at her.
“Yes,” she admitted sheepishly. “I thought it might work better than OnStar. I forgot we have a Chevy.”
I gawked at her, but before I could respond, the app thundered again.
“Turn left NOW, or face the consequences,” it boomed, clearly enraged at the indignity of being used in a Chevrolet.
“Hey there, hon, who invited this joker?” drawled OnStar, sounding both annoyed and oddly threatened.
“Please do turn off the amateurs,” sniffed Google with perfect British disdain. “It’s only confusing him further.”
“Listen,” Waze interjected, sounding like the one sane voice in the madness, “I’m just here to help avoid radar and potholes, all right?”
But FordPass was having none of it. “I am in charge here!” it declared, its profound bass voice growing louder. “You dare insult me? In a Chevrolet, no less?”
Feeling like I’d somehow fallen into a nightmare gathering of multilingual, mutinous backseat drivers, I finally pulled off at the next gas station, eager to ditch the voices altogether and just get a map. A real map, the kind you can hold in your hands.
The attendant gave me an odd look when I asked. “Well,” he said slowly, “we’ve only got the new digital maps with the interactive voice feature… English or French?”
I nearly screamed.
Defeated, I trudged back to the car, where my wife sat waiting, looking stunned by the whole debacle. I put the car in reverse, ready to turn around and go home, when the voices in unison delivered their parting shots, together loud enough to shake the car:
“Do you wish to resume the route?” said OnStar in her Southern drawl.
“You are heading the wrong way,” boomed FordPass, its disdain palpable.
“Watch out for that SQ radar trap,” said Waze in a placating tone.
“It’s 90 kilometers, not miles, until you reach your destination,” said the refined Google app voice.
Yikes!
This story previously appeared in Robin Kers Facebook.
Edited by Marie Ginga
A 75-year-old retiree, I spent my career crafting technical documents on labor relations and health and safety for a number of Canadian federal government departments and trade unions. Though I once dreamed of writing the great Canadian novel, I now embrace the art of flash fiction and short stories, enjoying this creative outlet in my later years on our hobby farm in southeastern Ontario.