Uber uber alles

Remember taxis? Well, maybe your dad will. They’re these usually-yellow autos steered by professional drivers and summoned by a telephone call (Remember those, too?) to transport you from here to there, especially when car-less in a distant city.

Today, that game is played by the likes of Lyft and Uber in transactions via a smartphone. Just look for Kim in a white Honda, arriving in 12 minutes and pay via a pre-established credit card account. Add a tip if Kim turned out to be particularly swell.

The Kims of Ubering are my dream drivers. More often, however, I am assigned the driver from hell—or, more specifically, the fella at the wheel who takes the opportunity to spout his fundamentalist religious assurances that hell is where I’m destined to spend eternity for lack of speed in joining his cult. Another one hard to erase from my memory is the driver who arrives in camo and delivers a Proud Boys rant for the duration of the trip.

Then, there’s the well-meaning little lady in small-town Wisconsin who chose not to follow Google Maps to my brunch destination because of “high traffic” on this be-calmed Sunday morning. The restaurant ends up calling me with threats of cancelling my reservation because I’m, by now, so late.

My Uber driver in Indianapolis recently delivered me to my hotel but asked if I’d remain in the car for a moment. I’d mentioned that I was writing a magazine story about visiting his city. He, in turn, wanted me to find a book publisher for the self-help manual he’d recently completed. When the car hadn’t moved in 20 minutes, Uber texted me to make sure I was not being held a prisoner.

Soon after—this time in Detroit—I learned, unsolicited, the story of my driver’s transitioning from male to female (cute sweater, long blonde curls) and—I do sympathize and was actually keenly interested—in the courage it took to shop in the Women’s department of a clothing store or enter a Ladies bathroom.

Dear to my heart, however, is the driver—again in Wisconsin—who kept a book in his car and told me how much he loved reading. “And what are you reading at the moment?” I naturally inquired. “Nancy Drew,” this 40-something gent he replied, to my amazement and delight. He couldn’t wait to finish the whole series. (I remember the very same feeling when I was in fourth grade.)

Others are glad to offer dining suggestions (they tend to favor the all-you-can-eat establishments) or views, which I welcome, on the current political news. For those who are recent immigrants to Minnesota, it’s heart-warming to hear their stories and how they’re working hard to send money to relatives back home. “What do you miss about…?” (Ukraine, Alabama, or wherever) and “What do you like about Minneapolis” I try to find out. It doesn’t take long to reach a common bond. And that’s what makes the world a smaller and more congenial place. Uber, I’m all yours!