Those paper maps

An interference of probable Russian origin spoiled the GPS navigation services of a Bulgarian airport and is going complicate the landing of Ursula von der Leyen's plane. To make the magnitude of the alarm caused by the sabotage more understandable, the media explained that the pilots had to use paper maps.

There was a time when the alarm also sounded when you heard the driver of the car (usually your father) say to the co-pilot (usually your mother) in a voice on the verge of exploding: "Get the map out." We were lost, in every sense. As the great Lópes would say, the moment you heard someone ask for the map, you began to feel "anxiety, nervousness, anguish, stress, and grief." The co-pilot would unfurl a sheet that didn't fit and search in that graphic immensity with his sharp marks for the spot where we were supposed to be. The drama was served. The mutual conjugal boos ("Get the map!" "Find it yourself!") were epic. (Similar to those we see today, when the screen pointer moves slowly and says, "It was down this street, you had to turn.")

What lasted even longer was the paper map in hotel receptions. There were virtuoso pen-wielding receptionists who would tear out the map from a blog they always had on the counter and make crosses with surgical precision: "The hotel is here, the restaurant is here, and you'll find a pharmacy here."

I had paper maps in my teenage bedroom and hung them in my children's rooms. Amused in front of the map was a way of discovering corners and proportions of the country and the world, and having geography in your head situates and sets your imagination soaring. To get from A to B, there's nothing like a GPS, of course, but a good map is endless.