The Device: A Luddite’s Lament

We may be the last people under the age of 50 to have done so in the developed world, but we have now officially joined the 21^st century through the purchase of a smart phone.  

And I have to say, I freakin’ love it.  I hate how much I love it.  It is fast, knows where we are, where to get the cheapest gas, posts cheesy selfies, allows us to deposit a check from the passenger seat, helps us find a Camp Wally which hasn't banned overnight parking when we can't find an open campground, and answers questions anytime I wonder aloud about something I don’t know. Being a phone, not so obviously, is the least of its handy functions and calling it as such seems a limitation.  

At first, I resisted the programming of our robot overlords and took to calling it, “the device,” the disdain dripping heavily off my tongue, delighting my inner luddite.  As much as this amused me, it annoyed my wife to no end -- a common enough occurrence.  We settled instead on calling it “The Oracle,” and I laughed out loud when Shari suggested “The Little O” for short.  Most recently “The Poracle,” for its rather large and shock-proof purple case, has officially stuck.  "Resistance is futile," of course and mine melted in the face of convenience, simplicity and slickness.  The programming stuck.   

Of course taking the red pill has its consequences.  I had to hire the services of the nearest 5 year-old child to unlock its many features and get me past my initial fear.  Once functionality was established, the initial frustration of dialing left behind, its intuitive flow and satisfying buzz at each nudge grabbed my attention and had me wanting more.  I was hooked, and now we take it everywhere.  

Just this past week we landed in Bar Harbor, Maine for a season of working with the National Park Service and a sea kayaking guide service, and now our magical oracle has gone silent, unable to connect to 3G, 4G or even a good cellular signal on much of the island.  We’ve had it just long enough to become a little too dependent -- driving across the backroads of New York, Vermont, and New Hampshire marveling at our connectivity and upping our data plan along the way, and now absolutely nothing.

But allow me to back-up a little to Autumn 2012.  My wife, Shari, and I embarked on our 50,000 mile great American road-trip / life with no specific plans and nothing to guide our wanderings except for a well-loved and well-tested 2006 Rand McNally North American Adventure Atlas and National Geographic's Guide to the National Parks.  We could imagine ourselves anywhere by simply flipping through its pages, taking in the context of our journeys on a grand scale.  It has been our loyal friend for many miles.  We have entrusted our sleep and safety to a dusky search for the tiny green tent icon down rural back roads in southern Mississippi.   More than once we vowed to never again drive into the unknown after dark, blindly seeking one of these remote places on the map.  Yet, we found ourselves return again and again to the same situation; Shari, the map open on her lap, reading glasses and headlamp on her head, giving me her best interpretation of map to field observations, chasing that little green tent so clearly labeled on the map.  We were sometimes confused, sometimes baffled and sometimes off course, but we always found a relatively safe and level place to park for the night.

Prior to departure, we were given a GPS device by our family.  A thoughtful gift indeed;  but, did we use it?  Nope, we swapped that thing faster than you can say “Magellan.”  In return we bought a Fantastic Fan vent and a Mr. Buddy Propane heater for the camper -- now these we use!  Luddites don’t need GPS, they use their atlas, intuition, and the occasional gas station attendant’s advice.  Though the best advice we got from a gas station attendant was, “You should ask for directions at Papa John’s Pizza…they really know the neighborhood.”   Good advice, though I wouldn't opt to purchase a pizza.

Cities provide the biggest challenge to atlas navigation.  Reaching a friend’s house, to which we’ve never been, required a stop at a wifi café, a few texts, and some detailed notes.   Now we have the same advantages as others of our century -- to have our left and right turns called out in a pleasing computer voice sounding vaguely like my mother.  While we resisted calling her Margaret, we decided about a month ago that the “the voice” needed a name.  We call her Naomi, allowing us to – completely guilt-free – tell her to shut up when she insists that we "make a U-turn, a proceed south on route 204."  We can make route changes on the fly with real-time traffic information, find the nearest laundromat, or Chipolte’s.  But why I am I telling you this?  You already know all “the device” can do.  I’m the luddite, here, the one lamenting the change just as I know that I will never fully go back to what we lovingly referred to as our “dumb phones.”  

Our drive around the country had us stopping periodically to plug-in; check email, bank online, poke around on FaceBook, respond to email, and all the other myriad of tasks completed with computers in great binges.  We stopped at public libraries most often, but other times McDonald’s, Starbucks, or other wifi enabled places helped us wade in the necessity of digital waters.  We met interesting people, talked to them, and in the process, learned of local lore and found ourselves in stunning historic buildings.  The Public Library in Silverton, Colorado, a 19^th century school house, that was probably also a church at one time, stands out.    Its aging doorways and windows framed by Gothic arches and the tiny stair cases to the second floor meet no modern building code, but provide such a rich visual tapestry history of a place that it leaves me wondering, “how many kids have put their hands to this rail?”  The laundromat in Pinedale, Wyoming, answered all of our needs that night – laundry machines, hot water to do our dishes, and a very fast and strong wifi connection.  It also had a dozen or so large mammal heads mounted above the driers, certainly not something you see in the average fluff and fold.   We heeded the attendant’s advice of not driving the mountain pass to Jackson at night when we learned that many of the animals looming above us were found in the local area.  “I never drive at night,” she said, “too many people have hit elk and moose in this area...or worse.”  As knowledgeable as she is, our Naomi wouldn't have known that bit of local beta.

Regardless, Naomi offers directions in clear, certain, unambiguous tones that leave little room for interpretation or debate.  While driving through Idaho this past summer, we could have used that kind of clarity.
 
I ask, “What river did you say that was?” 
“Kootenai,” Shari replies. 
“What? Hootenanny?” 
“No, Kooootennnnnaiiiii!”
“Spell it!” I demand.
Without missing a beat, Shari replies, “H-A-R-D-O-F-H-E-A-R-I-N-G!” 

When I actually get what she’s yelling, I have to pull over because I’m laughing so hard I’m crying.  You gotta give it to her, she may have a stubborn old deaf bastard for a husband, but she’s still got a good sense of humor. 

My fear is that as our journey relies more and more on the guidance of the device, we might miss these moments of mirth or drive right by those great gems of municipal history.   The need for information meant that we had our eyes open to what was right in front of us, and now that need diminishes.  I have found comfort in the blue and white library sign pointing us to our digital oasis, just as I have found in the universal A frame symbol of a place to camp for the night.  

It’s not that I fear change.  I love what change does in my life.  It forces me to recreate myself, and recreate my perspective to meet the changing situation.   Change helps me take refuge and delight in the simple things, like a good book and a warm cup of tea.  It’s helped me grow comfortable with the unknown, to accept that my basic needs for the day will be met.  I just worry if perhaps this newest change will mean the end of atlases, the end of asking directions from strangers, the end of discovering quaint libraries in small towns.  I can keep doing these things of course, but will the kids who grow up relying on their own oracles ever see beyond their little blue dot on the screen as they drive from wherever they were to wherever they go? 

Many luddites from generations before me have probably asked the same question about the fate of the kids growing up in a changing world.   Perhaps our timing here on Mount Desert Island, back to a place without 4G networks is appropriate.  We already know how to do this.  All we have to do is turn the thing off and pay attention to the stars around, the tidal pools, the wildlife we see and the way the spring season will bring the whole place back to life.  And then, when we want to, fire it back up to load our handy Audubon Bird ID app to discover what feathered friend we are hearing in the spruce tree.