Paper Maps or the Invisible Voice

GPS is the drill sergeant - but my trusty map explores possibilities.

Old Sautee Store, Sautee Nacotochee, Georgia, established in 1872. Nestled in the Georgia Appalachian foothills, where you can experience days gone by.

Neurologists have a fancy term for what I like to call “doing things the hard way.” They call it desirable difficulty. The theory is that cognitive friction—the actual effort of thinking—strengthens our neural pathways. These mental stumbling blocks are weight training for the soul.

When I’m squinting at a menu or struggling to remember the name of that one bistro in Highlands, I’m not “forgetting”—I’m doing reps.

Cashiers, North Carolina

The Paper Map vs. The Invisible Voice

Don’t get me wrong, my GPS is a loyal companion. It’s reliable, it doesn’t argue, and it generally keeps me out of trouble. But I love a paper map.

There is a deep, tactile comfort in the ritual: the aggressive unfolding, the hunt for the tiny font, the triumph of finding exactly where you stand in the world. I keep three or four in my glove compartment like ancient scrolls. Some would say I’m a preservationist.

• The GPS is a drill sergeant. It tells you where to go.

• The Map is an invitation. It shows you everywhere you could go.

Last summer, on the way to Cashiers, the interstate was blocked. The GPS threw a tantrum and rerouted us through the mountain back roads. It was the best mistake of the trip. We saw the way people actually live—the hidden villages, the leaning gas pumps in front of country stores, and the “lookout places” that don’t have a five-star Yelp review. Those “micro-challenges” of navigating the unknown kept my brain building new connections.

The Smart Home Séance

I like to feel in control. I like pencils, yellow legal pads, and physical objects that do what they’re told when I move them.

Then, I visited my daughter and was not in control of anything.

Her home is a “Smart Home,” which is code for “A Home That Makes You Feel Ridiculous and Stupid.” In her house, Alexa is the ghost in the machine. She controls the lights, the music, the heating, and even the oven. My daughter calls it “Effortless Living.” I call it a haunted house with better interior design.

The breaking point came when she went out with friends and left me with my grandson, George. Her parting instructions were simple: “Take the casserole out in 25 minutes and turn off the oven.”

I walked into the kitchen at the appointed time. There were no knobs. No dials. No switches. Just a sleek, silent appliance that refused to acknowledge my existence.

“Turn off the oven?” I asked the air. Silence.

“Siri?” “Turn off the oven,” I ventured, feeling a bit desperate. Nothing.

“Google?” “Turn off the oven.” Nothing. I was now essentially performing a séance for a tuna bake casserole.

From across the room, without even looking up from his Legos, two-year-old George spoke with the weary authority of a seasoned tech support agent:

“It’s Alexa.”

He didn’t even have his permanent teeth yet, but he knew which invisible woman ran the household.

The Takeaway

It was a humbling realization. I am out here resisting friction for the sake of my brain cells, while this child was born into a world where friction has been completely outsourced.

Perhaps the real wisdom isn’t in rejecting the new world or surrendering to it entirely. Perhaps it’s knowing when to wrestle with the map—and when to let the toddler handle the oven.