It took me two hours to drive from my Jerusalem apartment to Tel Aviv on Tuesday, and it was not only because of the traffic.
I got in my car at 6:15 a.m. like I always do to make my way to the office before rush hour. As I sat in my seat, I remembered that I was out of gas. But no problem. I know a station right on the way. So before even turning on the Waze, I headed over there.
There was a line at the pumps – something unusual for that time of morning. But I decided it was no big deal and I could wait three to five minutes.
When it was my turn, I pulled up, pumped the gas and was on my way.
As I turned onto the main thoroughfare that takes me to the highway, I turned on my phone and clicked on the Waze application. Normally, the address of The Jerusalem Post Tel Aviv office is right at the top. I saw it there and clicked, not thinking much about it.
As my car turned onto Menachem Begin Highway, I was careful to go the speed limit. I had just passed my driving test on Friday after spending two weeks and seven hours in driving school for getting caught by the Begin traffic cameras a few too many times.
It’s hard not to go more than 80 kilometers an hour when you are nearly alone on the highway and all you can think about is starting the day’s work but you know you have an hour in the car.
My friend phoned soon after and I took the call – handless headphones, of course – and we started chatting. My car moved with the curves of the road and all seemed fine and good.
Awkwardly, I noticed that Waze was diverting me to Route 7 toward Beersheba, but I didn’t think much about it.
“Hmm,” I said to myself, “I guess there was an accident or something and the all-knowing Waze is rerouting me.” So I went with it.
My friend and I continued chatting until I noticed a new sign, this one for Ashkelon.
“That’s strange,” I said – this time out loud. “Why would I be heading to Ashkelon?”
All of a sudden, my heart started beating really fast. My hands got sweaty. I lifted my finger and tapped a second time on the Waze icon and clicked the address of my office.
“Add Stop,” it gave me as one option. “New Drive,” it provided as the other.”
“Oh my God!” I screamed. “I think I am heading to Ashkelon.”
My kids and I had been in Ashkelon on Sunday for a vacation-day boat ride, and I must have clicked the address underneath my office.
I clicked the new drive option and there it was: Drive time 1:08.
A wave of panic overcame me. I wasn’t sure whether to laugh, cry or some combination. I had made a list of tasks to complete between 7:15 a.m. and 9 a.m. and now I would not arrive until after 8:30 a.m.
As I turned my car around and headed in the right direction, I started laughing so hard I almost could not breathe.
My friend also started laughing and sharing similar stories until we both realized that this is one sad characteristic we seem to have in common.
Like the time she drove right past the checkpoint at which she was supposed to meet a group of journalists and straight into Jenin. Or the time her mother boarded a plane for Baltimore instead of Boston.
There was also that time that I was walking home from work in Jerusalem, which is supposed to be 7.5 kilometers and an hour walk, but it ended up being an-hour-and-a-half because I walked right past my turn and to the other side of the city.
It makes for good stories.
And sometimes you just need things to go wrong so you can appreciate when they go right.
The writer is head of strategy and coronavirus analyst for The Jerusalem Post.