I recently met a friend for a drink who’d just visited three galleries. She was having a cultural day – curated for her by AI. Based on what it knew about her, it suggested exhibitions she’d enjoy, places to eat, even the best routes between stops. I was stunned. (Was I part of the itinerary?)

As part of my skeptic AI diary, I decide to use it to rediscover my hometown. I ask the ChatGPT to plan a full day out about town in London, packed with activities I might not normally choose. I tell the AI to ask me a few questions first, to gauge what I’ll enjoy and steer clear of neighbourhoods I already know well. I also ask it to check in after each stop, to vibe-check what comes next and offer backup options.

The schedule should be breadcrumbed to me throughout the day, so it feels like a kind of treasure hunt. I must admit I’m excited.

“I’ve selected the postal museum in Farringdon as the first stop,” confirms the AI. The museum is a brilliant choice. I leave my home at 11am, and within an hour, I’m riding through narrow, pre-war tunnels that criss-cross London, on a tiny carriage designed to transport sacks of mail. Stalactites everywhere, like Gringotts bank. It’s magical.

Next, the AI sends me to wetlands in Walthamstow, East London. It’s a rare glimpse of wilderness in the city: there are rare birds here, fishing lakes, crisp air. I crunch through mud in white trainers and read information boards about what’s in front of me. I come to the same conclusion about ornithology that I always do: someone is having a monumental laugh, and none of these birds are real. Yeah, yeah, I’ll keep my eye out for a … tufted pochard? A goldeneye? Why would they name a James Bond film after a mid-size duck?

It’s a lovely walk, but there are a lot of pylons in the marshes – I’m convinced I can feel electricity in the air. Maybe I’ll bring a date next time.

I realise I’m weak with hunger. I haven’t visited the bathroom, or fed myself, because the schedule didn’t tell me to. A quietly harrowing moment.

Things get weird when the AI sends me to … the lobby of the Bloomberg building, in the financial district. Is it showing me its home? I’m astonished to descend stairs, and enter a Roman temple. It’s the Mithraeum, discovered on this very site after wartime bombing. The dark, hushed remains are open to the public, with a chanting soundscape that feels like an Illuminati induction. It’s extraordinary. But why do I keep being sent underground?

Next, I’m to walk south for 15 minutes to see the Golden Hinde, Francis Drake’s ship tucked into a narrow lane in Borough. “Walk the external hull, paying attention to the creaking rigging and riverside shadows.” By then, I’ve had enough. I drink a tiramisu hot chocolate in the café next to it, wondering what I’m doing at a 16th-century warship.

When making our plans, I’d told ChatGPT my vibe was sensual pleasure. (I’d hoped to nudge the machine into sending me to a spa. Instead, it sent me to a flotation tank experience, but they’re booked up. They do have plenty of light therapy pods that “simulate a full body massage using state of the art AI robotics … and airbag systems”. I don’t think anyone wants AI in massage, the same way I hate that my dishwasher is connected to an app.

Next, I refuse to attend a Jamón bodega in Maltby market. It sounds amazing, but I don’t want to eat ham alone because a robot told me to, no matter how haunting the alcoves.

I fire up RhikGPT – an AI chatbot I’ve programmed to sound like me – to understand my ennui. “A ChatGPT itinerary tend to smooth the edges, so you move through London like a ghost with contactless,” my machine self reflects. It’s true, I’ve felt oddly cocooned all day. So what do I do?

“Pick a purpose, not a vibe,” it advises. “Make micro-connections, maybe build in friction. Jump off the bus early, or follow a dog?”

I can’t spend the day following a dog, I write. That would be functionally no different to having a mental breakdown. I would like to meet people.

“Hit up a comedy club then, and make friends in the bar after,” it replies. Not sure if I’m being shirty with me, but it’s a good idea.

The comedy night it sends me to is for people trying standup comedy for the first time, following a short course. I’m basically attending a graduation ceremony for strangers. It’s such a good time: they’re all more nervous than me, so I tell everyone they’re doing great.

By the end of the night I have 15 new friends, and a new nickname: Ham Solo.

Rhik Samadder is a columnist, playwright and performer who co-runs the Tuscan Table, a creative writing retreat in Italy

Source link