Dad's GPS Negotiation

We were about three hours into our family road trip to the coast when the tension in the minivan reached a boiling point. My dad was at the wheel, white-knuckling the steering wheel of our old Honda, while the GPS kept calmly repeating, "In one hundred feet, perform a U-turn."

Dad, however, was convinced that the satellite was conspiring against him. "It’s trying to lead us into a swamp, Karen!" he shouted at the dashboard. "I know this county. I grew up three towns over. This dirt road is a shortcut that the government doesn't want you to know about."

As the pavement turned into gravel, and the gravel turned into what looked like a dried-up creek bed, my mom just crossed her arms. "The shortcut currently has a cow standing in the middle of it, Frank," she pointed out.

We crawled along at five miles per hour, branches scraping the side of the van, until we hit a literal dead end at a rusted farm gate. The GPS let out one final, soulful chime: "You have arrived at your destination."

Dad stared at the empty cow pasture for a long, silent minute. He didn't look back at us. He just adjusted his rearview mirror, put the van in reverse, and cleared his throat.

"See?" he said, with the most unearned confidence I’ve ever witnessed. "I told you I’d find us a place to stretch our legs. This is a scenic overlook. Everyone out for a five-minute nature walk."