Getting There

            “Why won’t you look at the map?” I held up the Cook County street map I had dug out of the glove box.

            “Because I have a map,” he said, patting the dash-mounted GPS as if it were a side-arm.

            “A ‘map’ that’s wrong.” I waved my hand toward the wide expanse of water in front of us. “This is not Nessun Dorma.”

            It had taken six months to get our reservation at the newest, most talked about Italian restaurant in the city. Now, at our appointed hour, instead of being led to our coveted table, we were staring at the cold, dark waters of Lake Michigan—all because my dearly beloved insisted on driving so he could play with his new toy.

           “You must have put the address in wrong.” Of course, he blamed all this on me.

           “I’m not the one who put in the address,” I reminded him. “According to you, I’m not anatomically equipped to operate that particular piece of equipment.” True, those hadn’t been his exact words. His exact words were, well, much more colorful. But the principle remained the same. “You, it seems, are not anatomically equipped to use this.” I threw the half-folded map at him and got out of the car.

          I marched a few feet away, as much to cool off my temper as to escape the exhaust fumes. Then I dialed Information on my cell phone, half-amazed that such a thing still existed in this technology-at-your-fingertips age. The automated voice gave me the restaurant’s phone number and then connected the call. The very kind, very understanding hostess who answered the phone not only agreed to hold our reservation, she gave me directions to Nessun Dorma’s front door.

         That was the easy part. The hard part? Convincing my husband to follow them.

         Looking back at the car, I saw my dear hubby poking the GPS’ screen. His brow was furrowed and he was biting deeply into his lower lip—proof positive that he was completely befuddled.

         I think I’ll call a cab.



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