They say you never forget your first time. My first ride in a Waymo in San Francisco will be forever memorable. In case you are unfamiliar with Waymo, it is the latest version of a Google self-driving car project. You don’t drive it — it drives itself.
The producer of this revolutionary product, a subsidiary of Alphabet, is headquartered in Mountain View, California. The autonomous robotaxis are currently operating in San Francisco and Phoenix, and the company is rolling out new services in Los Angeles and Austin, Texas. (There are apparently no plans for Chicago just yet. Maybe our streets are too rough and tumble for Waymo.)
Still, there’s nothing like riding to the top of a San Francisco hill in a Waymo. The all-electric Jaguar I-PACE cars are decked out in all sorts of space-age gear — radar, sensors and cameras — as they motor around the peninsula, or San Francisco.
My husband and I were strolling in the city’s North Beach neighborhood on a recent visit. A Waymo stopped nearby, and three passengers exited the car. They were chuckling to themselves. Hubby sidled up and excitedly asked, “How was it?”
“Well,” one quipped, “it was cool, but the driver didn’t have a lot of personality!”
I knew, then, that I had to get a ride. I had no trepidation. I have already been transformed by Uber. I don’t drive or own a car. After spending decades relying on the dreaded taxi, I found Uber. Ride-sharing has changed my transportation life.
Have you ever tried to call a taxi dispatcher to request a cab? Did you ever try to grab a cab anywhere outside Chicago’s downtown? Let me tell you about it. I once asked a cabdriver to take me to DuSable Lake Shore Drive. He responded, “Where is that?”
Now comes Waymo. I suspect the autonomous automobile is the wave of the future. That wave starts on the coast of California. More on that later. Normally, when I get into a car, it’s like brushing my teeth. The sooner it’s over, the better. Not with the autonomous variety.
I hailed a Waymo for a 27-minute ride from Mission Bay to North Beach. It was serene, as the SUV’s big windows served up a panoramic view of beautiful San Fran. In the car, you forget that there’s no one in the driver’s seat, and that’s fine. It can be awkward riding in a confined space with a stranger, so the tendency is to engage in conversation. No need for forced conversation in a driverless car.
No loud hip-hop blaring from the car radio. You can pick and choose your melodies via a high-tech touch screen: classical, ambient jazz, alternative rock, Disney hits, even K-Pop and NPR. And there are more buttons with options to have the car pull over, call for support or control the temperature. So, you effortlessly gaze out the window at the passing urban scenery. The quiet and peaceful interlude was a peek into the future. That future is California’s stock-in-trade.
My Ouija board is broken, but I gleaned other telling tidbits on that future on my jaunt out West. There, as inflation drives rising costs, less is more. Recall that during a historic drought, it was the restaurants in California that started the “ask for water” trend. If you want it at the table, you must ask first.
Dining out these days? There, you must ask for bread and butter as well. In this inflation era, restaurants are slicing and dicing every amenity. At the bottom of the menu, the small print reads “bread available upon request.” Sit down at the table, and all you get is a menu and silverware. Maybe.
We worked out at a local health club. While my husband was changing in the locker room, someone walked in with a dog, a big retriever. Everyone there, he tells me, acted as though it was no big deal. Did the dog take a shower? I asked. Hubby didn’t stick around to find out.
Only in California. In a public men’s room, he encountered a video screen installed at the urinal, displaying ads, one pitching a bathroom remodeling company.
The future awaits us. The future may be bereft of personality and sliced bread, but at least there will be a dog in the locker room.
Laura Washington is a political commentator and longtime Chicago journalist. Her columns appear in the Tribune each Monday. Write to her at LauraLauraWashington@gmail.com.
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