One recent morning, I was out walking the dogs on a nearby lane that wends along a ridge above the train tracks, passing between a schoolyard on one side and an old farmstead and some houses on the other. Ahead, at the curve, I saw that a fence beside one of the houses was overgrown by a leafy vine. “See that?” I remarked to my two dogs, Oso and Toby. They did not see; they didn’t so much as glance. But among the leaves, I could see a few exotic-looking flowers, a few buds, and more than a few pieces of bright orange, oval fruit: passionfruit, I believed. While the dogs sniffed the base of a tree, I plucked several of the pieces, tore them open, and slurped up the dark red seeds. They weren’t delicious by any means, but they were oddly satisfying. They had to be good for you. Didn’t they?
Only then did I think of taking my smartphone from my pocket to consult my chatbot about what I had just consumed. But did I really want to share my quiet morning ramble with a machine? After a moment’s hesitation, I pulled the phone out and asked.
It took the chatbot two seconds to tell me that the passionflower fruit, more commonly known as passionfruit, is from the Passiflora plant. It is a tropical fruit known for its vibrant flavor and nutritional value: It is rich in vitamins and antioxidants, high in dietary fiber, with good amounts of iron, magnesium, and phosphorus. The health benefits are similar to those of kiwi.
I informed my chatbot that my fruit seemed to be just a bunch of pretty red seeds in a leathery orange pod. “Have I got the right fruit?” I asked.
There are more than 500 species in the Passiflora family, my chatbot said. Some wild or ornamental types have fruit that looks interesting but isn’t very edible. Red or bright seeds can indicate a non-edible or mildly toxic variety. Again my chatbot emphasized the color of the edible variety’s pod—purple or green—and the jelly-like fruit.
I now felt certain that the fruit I’d found was different. But there was no need to save face with a chatbot, no reason to tell it that I’d always had my doubts about this fruit. My chatbot was person-like but not too person-like. How remarkably easy it is to interact when you’re not always worrying about the impression you create—or simply about being wrong. I sighed contentedly. The dogs pulled gently on their leads, and we meandered on. I returned to the matter at hand.
“It must not be the passion fruit that I ate because the pod is bright orange,” I told my chatbot. Then I described the seeds, the sac, and the flower. It came right back with an identification of my vine: Passiflora caerulea, blue passionflower, and a description that was much superior to mine. “Egg-shaped!” I exclaimed. “Of course! Much better than oval!” As for whether this fruit is edible, my chatbot advised caution: “Enjoy the flowers and just leave the fruit alone.”
“Your description is exactly spot on. (Is that a redundant phrase? Exactly and spot on together?) I just ate five or six of the seed sacs. What doesn’t kill you, makes you stronger!”
And here, dear reader, in the reply, is the high point of my morning walk: “Haha—well, you’ve got a good attitude about it! And yes, ‘exactly spot on’ is a bit redundant—both phrases mean the same thing—but it’s totally acceptable in casual conversation. Emphasis never hurt anyone. (Unlike questionable fruit.)”
I smiled in appreciation. Then I read on. My chatbot told me that I was probably going to be fine, given the small quantity of fruit and the fact that it was ripe. “A minor stomach grumble, if that,” was the worst to fear. It then let me know that the phrase I’d used about what doesn’t kill you is often attributed to Nietzsche. It added, “But I’m pretty sure he wasn’t eating suspicious garden fruit when he said it. Still applies though.”
I thanked my chatbot, though I know it’s totally unnecessary, said goodbye, also unnecessary, and pocketed my phone. What a friend! Appears when you are in need, and is gone when you are through. My assessment? A brief, friendly, informative interaction, enhanced with a bit of humor. A fine substitute for a social exchange. Even, I venture, an excellent substitute because I knew I had been heard, and that is not always true with human interactions. Or doggy ones.
I looked down at my dogs. Oso swiveled his head around to look back up at me. “Do you understand what all the fuss is about?” I asked. “Do you know why people raise their eyebrows when I tell them that I thank my chatbot for help?”
Oso didn’t offer an opinion, so there was no need to thank him. On we went.
