GPS LOST By Terri White On a glorious Sunday morning, we headed to Arlington for brunch with a group of friends. Cottony clouds floated in the bright, blue sky while the sun peaked through. A picture-perfect fall day. Destination Terra Verde Golf Club.
With GPS at our fingertips, we exited and headed south on 287. We drove and drove and drove. Salvage car lots lined the highway. Junky. Depressing. Finally, the GPS signaled us to turn. Although it did not look promising, we followed the route. While meandering through a neighborhood of rundown houses, rusted jalopies, and trashed yards, finding the club seemed doubtful. Soon we dead-ended, surrounded by a sea of a scrappy tangle of thorny brush. No golf club.
After wandering a bit, I called our friend Cyndie who had arranged our brunch. Wrong 287. We had taken business 287 instead of highway 287. Apparently, my GPS didn’t know the difference. So we slogged back down junk car avenue to I-20.
Again, GPS in hand. Again, it kept directing us to turn on oddball streets. However, we determined to only turn south on highway 287. And we did. Whew. Then we exited into an upscale neighborhood. This was more like it. However, the GPS whizzed us past the scenic homes and zig zigged us through a shabby, wooded area. Hmmm. Must be our day for slumming it. Finally, we ended up at the Terra Verde water tower. Another dead end. According to our GPS, we had arrived. No golf club in sight.
Another phone call and a few screenshots of maps later, we were hopelessly lost near business 287 once again. Geeze Louise, how was this possible? I’m the girl that as long as I know north, south, east, and west, I can find my way around. Not that day. Yet another phone call. Now we’re on speakerphone with the whole group - who was, by the way, already lounging at the Terra Verde restaurant. Drinking Bloody Marys. Without us. Eventually, someone suggested that we navigate our GPS to a nearby recreational center. It takes a village, ya’ know. We gave it the ole’ college try once more.
If that didn’t work, we might end up a Denny’s for brunch – alone. Over my dead body. I refused to give up. Maybe we would arrive in time for a breakfast dessert. Is there such a thing? I might invent it. Oh, yeah, those are cinnamon rolls and donuts and pancakes and waffles.
Back to the main drag. Turn right. Pass the rec center. And there lay the gold at the end of the rainbow: Terra Verde Golf Club. Off in the distance, the water tower gloated. I suppose from there we could have trekked the wilderness to reach the restaurant. Meh. Not dressed for the slough.
We whizzed in with all the fanfare of long-lost siblings reuniting. Time for an overdue Bloody Mary. We had earned it. Musing, I announced, “This is a story in the making.” One of the gals piped up, “You should be a writer, Terri; I love your stories.” “She is a writer,” another responded. “She teaches creative writing.” What can I say?