Maps are a mystery to me, and my worthlessness in navigating has been a family joke for two decades. Google Maps and turn-by-turn smartphone guidance were a revelation—they have saved me from embarrassment and being late at least once a week since 2007. I am utterly dependent on them.
So on my honeymoon in Britain last April, it was just me, my new husband, a rented hatchback, and a data-roaming plan, trying to make it back to Heathrow. I was navigating when we missed the exit for the international terminal.
Why weren’t we following the navigation system’s 21st-century turn-by-turn directions, you ask? To break me of my slavish dependence on the lady voice from the phone, I’ve been using the phone satellite to map my location, and then, under the careful tutelage of my spouse, using the map to plot a course. This is supposed to help me with my situational awareness.
But as we were taking the wrong ramp, I grabbed for my crutch and got some real directions—on silent, however, because I was pretending that nothing was wrong. The man I just married, however, is an ace navigator with great situational awareness, so he caught on pretty quickly. (But he’s also a gentleman, so he pretended too, for a while.)
After a couple of tricky maneuvers, the phone instructed us to take a left onto Longford Roundabout Access Road. It was clearly marked that only buses were allowed to make this particular turn, so it was obvious to everyone at this point that I had messed up. But the phone said to turn, so left we went, and everything was hunky-dory. We even had time for a last glass of champagne before the flight.
But, it turns out, British traffic enforcement is no joke. The authorities tracked us down to our apartment in Virginia and sent us a Penalty Charge Notice with a color picture from Camera Enforcement Officer CCTV421 of our rental car turning illegally, along with a fine of £130, or £195 if it was late, which it already was since the letter took a month to make the voyage to the colonies. Those were pre-Brexit pounds too, so they were not kidding around.
I felt terrible. My husband got a huge traffic ticket because I still can’t read a map. And it wasn’t as if I could flirt my way out of this like a speeding ticket; no amount of eyelash flapping was going to make that picture disappear. But the nastygram did include a “parking appeals” email address where we miscreants could send excuses for our bad behavior: “We will consider exercising our discretion and may cancel the penalty charge notice if there are suitable mitigating circumstances (i.e., if we believe that there is a good enough reason).” Challenge accepted.
I couldn’t know who or what is on the other end of that parking appeals email address—man or woman, old or young, cheerful or grumpy? The only thing I did know was that my audience was a traffic-enforcement officer who was sitting at a desk and not out chasing down speeders on a motorcycle. How does one charm a bored, faceless bureaucrat from 3,600 miles away?
First, I accepted the premise of their complaint. We were guilty. And nobody likes a liar.
Second, I threw myself on the mercy of the court. “We certainly made a mistake,” I wrote, “and I’m terribly sorry about it. It was the last day of our honeymoon (he didn’t marry me for my map-reading skills), and I’m hoping you’ll take pity on us.” Everyone likes feeling powerful, and I assume “traffic-enforcement officer” is as close to “overlord” as one can get in government work.
Third, I bargained, on the off chance that my reader was feeling charitable but not quite generous enough to waive the charge entirely. Since the notice arrived a month late after going through the rental-car company and then across the Atlantic, perhaps they would waive the late charge.
In case none of these appeals to our common humanity connected, I ended with an appeal to our universal human laziness. “In any case, please let us know the best way to pay; U.S. checks might not work well in the U.K., and cash won’t make it through the mail.” If they wanted the dough, they were going to have to figure out how to get it.
A week later, the gods among men at Parking Services of the London Borough of Hillingdon forgave us our sins, with the admonition that “should any further contraventions of this nature occur, the Penalty Charge Notice may be upheld.” I don’t think my husband could have been prouder if I had read the map properly in the first place.
