On Thursday night, I found myself stranded. I’d just finished running across Philadelphia’s Suburban Station, panting heavily, only to see the digits 12:28 a.m. blinking back at me from the clock. Let’s put this in context: the last train back to Bryn Mawr was at 12:27 a.m.
So, begrudgingly, I decided to do what any self-respecting Millennial would do in my position: call an Uber.
I clicked on the fare estimate. I’m not going to say what it was, but it was startling enough to make me feel a little queasy. “Fares may be higher due to traffic and weather. Do you accept?” said my phone app. Yes, I pressed bitterly. There goes next month’s phone bill. “Arriving in 3 minutes," the app continued. I sighed and, phone in hand, began to climb up the station steps towards the City Hall exit.
It was drizzling. I pulled up my jacket’s hood and held my breath, waiting for the minutes to go by. It was a weeknight, so only a few headlights could be seen going down the street every few seconds. The street looked beautiful, awash in the pale glow of City Hall’s lighting; I would normally have taken a moment to lean back against a lamp post and take in the city’s view by night, but I was still too mad at myself for missing the last train back to notice much around me. Thinking of the half hour drive back made me feel impatient to get back to my dorm, not to mention – I realized as I let out a yawn – tired.
Several feet behind me, I heard the sound of feet shuffling. My heart jumped; I may be from Karachi, a place that toughens the weakest of wills, but being out in Philadelphia alone late at night still makes me feel a little nervous. “Get pepper spray," my sister recently told me, “I’m serious.”
But just as I was about to turn around and head back inside the train station to continue waiting for my ride, my phone rang. “Hello?”
“Hi, Nay-hell? This is your Uber ride,” said Abdou, which was my Uber driver’s name on my app, in a deep voice. I smiled at the pronunciation of my name. He spoke with an American accent, but there was a trace of something else in his voice. I couldn’t quite place it. “I’m on 16th and JFK.”
Wait a minute.
“I’m actually standing in front of City Hall,” I said, starting to pace and look around as if I would suddenly see a black Toyota pull up at my feet. “Can you come pick me up from there?”
“Okay.”
Within five minutes, I saw the black Toyota pull up to the curb. I opened the door and got in. I spotted Abdou’s eyes looking at me in the rearview mirror. “I thought you were on 16th and JFK, that’s what my phone said,” he said, looking amused.
“I’m sorry,” I said, feeling guilty, “I called the Uber while I was still inside the train station near that street, then I walked over here towards City Hall."
“I figured,” he said, “You’re not the first one." But I saw him smile as he said this, so I knew he was just kidding.
We drove off. I began to stare at the rain outside the window, feeling too tired to make small talk. There was some music playing in the back; I recognized it but didn’t know who the artist was. I closed my eyes and leaned back.
“Are you alright back there?”
I opened my eyes. I could see Abdou looking at me in the rearview mirror again, concerned. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just tired, that’s all,” I said with a laugh.
“I’m going to get you home safe, okay? Don’t worry about a thing!” he said, confidently.
Home. I suppose on nights like these, Bryn Mawr really does feel like home.
“So where are you from?” he asked. Now I felt even guiltier for staying quiet earlier; he clearly just wanted to make the long ride more relaxed for both of us.
“I’m from Pakistan,” I said. I’m still getting used to saying those words to introduce myself. “What about you?”
“West Africa”, he replied. I wondered why he didn’t go to a specific country. Perhaps he’s used to people not knowing which one.
“Which one?” I asked, hesitantly. What if he didn’t want to tell me? Worth a shot, I thought to myself.
“Benin,” he said, smiling wider. Now I understood where he got the ‘something else’ in his American accent from. “But I’m also going to become an American citizen in two months.”
“That’s great! I’ve never met someone from Benin before,” I said. “If you don’t mind me asking, which language is most commonly spoken there?” The thought of two people from different parts of the globe encountering one another on the streets of Philadelphia made me snap out of my earlier introversion.
“French. What about you?”
“Urdu.” We exchanged smiles. This time, I decided to say something. “How long have you been living in the US for?”
“Eight years,” he said. “And you?”
“About a year and a half,” I said, and then added, “I suppose that’s why I’m enjoying this year’s warm winter, I’m still getting used to the snow.” Trust me to start talking about something as exciting as the weather.
“Oh, this? Don’t worry about that. You get used to it. It’s going to get cold and start snowing again soon, though. Mark my words,” he said with a small grin.
“Do you miss Benin?” I asked next, and instantly regretted it. What a ridiculous question to ask.
Luckily, Abdou didn’t seem to mind. “Definitely. It’s where it all began for me. But I’m here because I can earn in dollars here to send back home to my family.”
I remembered myself complaining about the high Uber price earlier and felt another fresh pang of guilt. “Do you happen to have any family here, though?”
“My daughter,” he said. His voice sounded quieter as he said this. He was clearly very protective of her.
“How old?”
“She’s three, and still growing,” he said with a small laugh.
“What’s her name?”
“Maya,” he said. The smile he had on his face when he said her name was the widest one yet.
We finally arrived outside my dorm. As I opened the door to get out, I heard him say, “I told you I’ll get you home safe!”
I turned around, laughing, and replied, “Thank you so much. Have a good night!”
“You, too,” he called out from the window as I began to walk towards my dorm. I fell asleep almost instantly, just barely having time to breathe a sigh of relief to be back in my bed.
The next morning, I woke up to get ready for my morning class. As I checked my emails on my phone while getting out of bed, I saw an email with an Uber receipt from last night. That’s when I remembered my conversation with Abdou, and love I could hear in his voice when he talked about his family. I didn’t care that I paid more for my Uber than I normally would anymore. Perhaps one shouldn’t put a price on an honest human connection.
I opened the door to step outside and laughed. Abdou was right.
It was snowing.
