iPhone Homage

At the risk of seeming really ancient, I remember when all telephones were either mounted to the kitchen wall or positioned on a telephone table or desk. If you wanted to have a private conversation, you’d try to pull the receiver cord around the corner and out of hearing of the rest of the family. Black was the only color choice for the phone with its rotary dial; any call beyond ten miles was considered “long distance” and was charged accordingly. There were no area codes, and most phone numbers started with a word, followed by five numbers, e.g., REdwood-45128. In the manner of all things techno, the staid telephone eventually became smaller, faster, and smarter, with more memory, more attachments and more applications.

Three years ago, when I needed a new cell phone, I told the guy I just wanted a phone. I didn’t want it to do anything but make calls. I didn’t text. I didn’t need a camera. That’s it. A phone. But that was three years ago, eons in techno-time, and now it was time to catch up.

A month ago today, I bought my iPhone. We were visiting San Francisco when I nudged my sweet husband, Henry the Technophobe who hates change, into the Apple store. We had been in an Apple store once before, in Chicago, when I bought my iPod. The store was humming with activity and music, even at ten in the morning. There were plenty of blue-shirted, smiling customer service people who greeted us at the door, but at first they assumed we weren’t actually buying anything. After all, we were way over the median age of 15, and we didn’t rush over and attach ourselves to any of the machines on display.

Eventually we convinced a Blue Shirt that we were serious about this. We wanted to buy. When we bought the iPod, I recall it was a pretty simple procedure. I told the young man I wanted an iPod and a case, and we were out of there in about twenty minutes. Purchasing a phone, though, is akin to buying a car. How will we use the phone? Did we travel? We could turn off the phone with “airplane mode.” Did we want the protection program? Two years of Apple Peace of Mind? Did we know that if we purchased the MobileME, then we could also locate the phone should it get away from me? Is that a built-in lowjack or what, I thought. With a minimum of eye-rolling, we bought the whole package, a sleek white phone with headphones, USB connection and universal charger. Our guy was apparently obligated to show us all the bells and whistles, and two hours later we walked out of the store, eyes glazed with techno-fatigue. What he hadn’t been able to do, though, was transfer all my contacts from my old phone. Instead, he sent us down the street to the AT&T store. At that point, the AT&T guy rolled his eyes. “He should’ve been able to do that for you,” he mumbled.

This new, slim rectangle has no protruding antenna certainly no rotary dial. Instead, as legions of younger people already know, there is a smooth surface with colorful icons to touch. The sole button is to reach “home,” but of course that’s not as in “Phone home.” In fact, the only way to learn to use this mini-marvel is to engage the help of a younger person. So far, David set me up with iTunes and some nifty apps; Monica has shown me how to edit my photos. What I have discovered with my new phone is that its ability to make and receive a call is almost incidental. I can Google, read my email, play TapWord, record the food I’ve eaten for the day, check the weather in Buenos Aires and the rate of exchange for dollars with Peruvian Nuevo Soles. I can also check the time in New York, work a crossword, read a book, look up a word in the dictionary; listen to all my music transferred from my iPod, text my daughter-in-law and take pictures of Michela. Sometimes, but not often, my phone even rings.