Somewhere Between McDonald’s and God
Last week I was on the road. Far away, constant motion, one plane after another, one hotel after another, shopping malls, bars, parks, back alleys. All of them packed with other people doing the same thing—sweating, smoking, smelling. And every single one had the same feature in common: the internet was completely, utterly unavailable. Which brought me, repeatedly, to the edge of a breakdown.
I could tell you I needed connectivity for work. Emailing photographers, chasing leads, the usual professional excuses. And sure, that too. But honestly? I just wanted to check into Facebook, read idiotic tweets from even more idiotic people, watch some animal porn. Not miss anything. React fast. But I couldn’t, because someone with actual power over this world has decided that constant internet access is still not a basic right.
Fifteen euros for one day of slow hotel Wi-Fi. Really. And only if you have a credit card. A free thirty minutes on the plane courtesy of some Ford promotional campaign—everyone on board losing their minds with gratitude. A Wi-Fi network branded as Nike’s gift to humanity that turned out to be an automatic redirect to a jogging app and absolutely nothing else. Really?!
So I spent the week running around with my iPhone held aloft like a divining rod, scanning the air for signal. "Free Public Wifi" is sometimes a genuine miracle and sometimes a trap. McDonald’s is fine but throttled. Starbucks is something like God—or better than God. You connect, you press a button, you have internet indefinitely, or at least until the battery or the White Chocolate Mocha runs out. "Marcel, look—Megan Fox covered in jello on a flying unicorn that looks like a hotter Keira Knightley!" "Yeah, shut up, I’ve got five supposedly open networks left to check."
I don’t even necessarily need it to be free. I think free universal internet is eventually where this has to go, but right now, today, I’d still pay for it. Just not a lot. It’s 2012. I don’t want to spend my life chasing signal. Give me fifteen euros for a full week of internet wherever I happen to be—planes, hotels, all of it. Twenty euros. Fine. We have a deal. That’s what it’s worth to me.
Sounds utopian? Maybe. But I wouldn’t have to live in terror of sliding that roaming toggle and bankrupting my theoretical future children for generations. On the plane I wouldn’t have to watch a hundredth rerun of The Big Bang Theory pretending I still find "Penny, Penny, Penny" amusing. I could use my time for something. And someone please, for the love of everything, think about the human-penetrated monkeys.
What I’m really saying, to whoever quietly runs this small, mediocre world and prefers to stay anonymous—I understand completely, no judgment—just put the internet everywhere already. For everyone. Forever. For me. Eventually for free. Soon for free. That would be very kind of you. Yours sincerely, Marcel. You asshole.