“Not to worry,” I breezed, “We’ll just slip on down I-75 and nip across the Ambassador Bridge. It’ll be a snap, besides we have Linda (our GPS) with us to sort out any problems.
Two minutes later we passed the first sign, ‘Construction ahead- Alternate Route Suggested’ but the traffic was breezing right along so I followed Linda’s cool-voiced command, ‘Stay on the current road in 3 kilometres.’
The Pearl dug the road atlas out of the side pocket and with some concern asked, “What state are we in?”
‘Not to worry,” I assured her, after all Linda was locked onto 8 satellites
The miles rolled by and the ‘Suggest Alternate Route’ signs appeared with increasing frequency. Linda kept her cool and so did I. The Pearl seemed tenser as she rotated the map trying to make sense of this idiocy.
“In one kilometre make a slight right turn, followed by a right turn, followed by a keep to the left,” ordered Linda.
I swung in behind a transport that immediately hammered on his brakes. Smoke rolled off his tires, as my ABS chattered, and the rig braking behind us fishtailed. We all got stopped. The Pearl crossed herself.
The next hour was a pleasant stop-and-go crawl as we moved the half kilometre and merged, then exited the traffic jam. The Pearl’s eyes were wide with terror as I eased from a crawl into the 60 mph traffic. In no time we were in downtown Detroit and totally lost.
Linda, who had lost her fix on the satellites while under a snakes-nest of flyovers, finally regained consciousness, and began spitting out directions.
“Keep left in 300 metres”, followed by a “hard right”, then by a “keep to the left,” she ordered with the coolness of an air traffic controller.
“Flight Elliott maintain altitude and continue straight down the runway,” she ordered as I pulled up to the concrete barricade blocking the roadway, my ABS brakes once more receiving a thorough workout even with engine reverse thrusters fully applied.
I switched to my backup guidance system, “Quick Norma, do you see a sign directing us to the bridge?”
“The bridge is over there,” the Pearl replied pointing off to the left, “but the sign says to the right.”
We pulled a hard right as horns blared and fists were waved in our direction. I waved back politely and carried on. Canadian, eh.
“The next fifteen minutes was a ‘search and follow’ mission as we obeyed sign after sign with the bridge constantly diminishing in the rear-view mirror. All the while Linda kept up a barrage of ignored orders, “Turn left”, “Turn right,” “When possible make a legal u-turn!”
But we followed the signs and suddenly found ourselves in the middle of a slum without another sign in sight. It looked like the burnt out set of ‘Escape from New York City.’
“Get the h… out of here! Make a U-Turn, legal or otherwise,” ordered Linda. I obeyed.
Twenty minutes later under Linda's renewed direction, we approached the bridge. I pulled in behind a transport sporting a Canadian flag and with desperation clung to his tail until we pulled up to Canada Customs.
“Nothing to declare? On your way, eh,” ordered the official, but I had to wait for the Pearl to get back in the van as she was busy out kissing the ground.
“Flight Elliott you are cleared for takeoff on Highway # 3. Make a slight right at the fork and climb through 15000 feet,” ordered Linda. I never even looked back.
