Google Maps is Trying to Ruin My Life - Part 1

Google Maps is out to get me. It’s tried to get me killed, arrested and mugged in various situations. These are my stories. 

Do you ever look around and wonder “How did I get here?” Were you also stuck in your car in the middle of a French pedestrian promenade?

My friends and I were at the tail end of a successful girls trip to France. We were exhausted, but wanted to make our last meal count, so Chelsea booked us a place in downtown Aix en Provence so we could gorge ourselves on delicious French delicacies one more time. 

As the self-appointed driver of the trip, I drove us downtown for our last meal. Now, I’d like to preface this story by saying that the roads in Aix en Provence make no sense. Every time we went somewhere, Google Maps told me to make left turns so sharp they should be classified as U-turns, put me on what I was sure were bike highways, and pointed me down sketchy-looking access roads behind construction sites. But I always got where I needed to go, so I put my blind trust into a small voice in my phone.

As we approached the city center the two-way streets started to look more like the width of one car and I was praying to any God available that no cars come from the opposite direction. As I navigated a tight turn, Lydia said from the backseat: “It’s weird, there aren’t many people out for a Friday night”

“Plenty of people for me, thanks”, I quipped back. 

We came across a few groups of people walking in the middle of the road, and they politely moved out of the way when they heard me coming. Then I saw a little blue sign with people walking on it and thought, “Wonder what that sign means?” 

The number of people walking on the road was growing – but it really wasn’t their fault; the ‘sidewalk’ was made for a bony 6 year old. Even so, I could feel my grip on the steering wheel tightening as I morphed into the worst version of myself: Road Whitney. For reasons I should probably unpack with my therapist, when I’m in the car I become an expletive-slinging asshole if anyone inconveniences me. 

As I was softly yelling at people to get (the fuck) out of my way, I looked down at the navigation. “Turn right.” Google Maps said. 

Cool. Time to leave these dickheads in my rearview. 

Wow did I regret that turn. 

In front of me was a densely packed crowd of hundreds of people. They were all looking at me like I was the idiot, even though they were the ones walking in the middle of the road. I chalked it up to them knowing I was an American and greeting me with the customary warmth. 

Then I saw another one of those stupid blue signs and everything clicked. 

MERDE. 

(That’s French)

(For shit)

Google Maps had directed me right into the beating heart of the city’s pedestrian-only zone. 

I stopped and looked at my friends for help. It felt like I was frozen, until Chelsea’s yell brought me back down to Earth. 

“EW! I can see the top of that guy’s dick!!”

I turned to look out the front window and saw a toothless man standing in front of our car yelling at us, holding a sign, and sure enough, you could see it. 

By now the crowd had swallowed us whole and Google said that the only way out was straight through. I inched the car forward, hoping people would move - namely Richard who was still yelling at us. 

It probably took me a total of 3 min to navigate, but wading through the hundreds of varying looks of disdain made me realize that time really is just a construct. If you told me that I’d spent 10 years there, I’d believe you. 

We finally pulled out into a dark clearing and I let out a nervous chuckle. But as my eyes slowly adjusted, I realized…our car wasn’t on a road anymore. It was in the middle of a promenade. 

A few people walked by the car, staring me down with the same look I’d imagine they usually reserve for a rat who just crawled out of a port-a-potty. 

Road Whit thought about rolling down her window and giving them an earful, but then I heard the faint sounds of French police sirens ringing in the distance. Soon after, a police car whizzed along the road just outside the promenade with its lights flashing. This was it. Someone called the cops on the idiot American. 

Straight ahead there were three large metal bollards with red lights flashing at the top. I briefly thought about gunning it and crashing through them, but there was no way we’d make it - even in what our rental car guy called ‘the biggest SUV in France’.

I put my forehead on the steering wheel and gave up. We were done for. Time to leave the car and go on the run. 

Chelsea, an angel sent from heaven said “Get out, I’ll drive”.

‘Thank you”, I whispered. 

I got out thinking we would switch seats, but Chelsea, Lydia and Cori ran off and started scouting the area like a professional recon team while I stood by the car and just shouted “Chelsea!” over and over, waiting for her to come back and drive us to safety. If you can’t tell, I’m great in a crisis. 

(NB: Katie later told us that she sat in the back seat and covered her face, just in case we were caught. Thanks Katie.)

Chelsea got back to the car and was slowly driving us around the promenade while Lydia and Cori were still scouting the area. Cori found a space in the fence, but it would involve hopping a 12 inch curb and completely destroying the underside of our rental car, so we put that down as Plan B.

Lydia found us a break in the fence wide enough to get the car onto a back road. Everyone piled back in, made it through the fence and started patting ourselves on the back for not getting arrested. That was until we saw the flashing red lights of more bollards up ahead. We turned around, and the other end of the road was a brick building. Sublime. 

Lydia and I walked over to the bollards. I’m not sure what we thought we could do - this was the kind of barrier they put in front of really, really important government buildings that they don’t want bombed. The kind of barrier that says “don’t even think about it” when you look at it. The kind of barrier that makes you wonder what the accommodations are like in French prison. 

We examined every inch of the bollards before we saw a little box nearby. There was a touch screen with a phone symbol on it, so I held my breath and pressed it. As we stared down the ringing box, I imagine we looked a bit like Derek and Hansel in Zoolander when they find out the files are in the computer. 

“Allo?”

“Parlez vous Anglais???”

“Non.”

Great. Lydia and I looked at each other, trying to remember how to say “Please for the love of God let us out we don’t know how we got here we’re so sorry please don’t call the cops” in French 

“Alo????”

I finally just said (in my most American English): “Um…we’re stuck!!”

“Eh???”

“Our car is stuck!!”

“Oo.”

We heard the faint grinding of metal, and turned to see the bollards sinking into the ground.  We ran back to the car shouting “MERCI” as loudly as possible and telling Chelsea to floor it before the barriers came back up. We were finally back on the open road, no cops in sight, and only 30 min late for our dinner reservation*. Someone let out a nervous laugh, and the rest of us burst into laughter that didn’t stop until we fell asleep that night. 

As my head hit the pillow all I could think was how simple the robot revolution will be. All they’ll have to do is tell us “Turn Right”. 

*When we got to restaurant, the maître d' said “I’m so sorry, but I can’t find your reservation.” Chelsea said “you just called us 15 minutes ago??” 

After a bit of back and forth, he found us a table. As we were finishing up our lovely meal, Chelsea got another phone call, asking if we were still coming for dinner. She looked up the restaurant and realised that she had made a reservation at a restaurant in a small French town 8 hours drive away. Thanks again, Google Maps.