dc

There was probably, in loose terms, some logical, mature justification to make a trip to the Washington DC/Baltimore area. I wanted to see the Smithsonian, I wanted to see friends, and I wanted to pay taxes. (the last is no joke. I really want(ed) an ITIN, in order to file taxes in the US, in order to pay taxes in the US, in order to… unclear).

I could write about events leading up and events that passed: auditing Calculus 1 as a completely unenrolled student (and not understanding a thing, despite having already learned the content in high school), getting an UberEats shirt and an official university sign from the JHU clubs fair, meeting a bunch of cool people, seeing a basement “closed” for waxing, sleeping on a couch half the length of my body, and at some point, visiting the IRS.

Instead, I want to write about the Uber drivers I had.

My first Uber was to the IRS. I was running late by ~10 minutes. I wasn’t sure how it (the IRS) worked, but I was fairly confident that if there was a security queue, a confusing building layout, or any similar misfortune, I would have missed the appointment the whole trip was scheduled around. When I was getting into the car, I didn’t say a word about being scared of being late. David, the driver, subconsciously picked up on my urgency and replied by peeling off the curb at 30 miles an hour (which I assume is akin to “don’t worry”).

While he was driving in a way that would make Vin Diesel nervous, he launched into telling me this grand, autobiographical narrative—which included his ex-wife, his cousin’s ex-wife, his current girlfriend, how he ended up in Baltimore, how he’s learning German from a Harvard professor that was his passenger at one point, the 2008 recession, and the French language—that lasted the entire 13 minute drive (Google Maps predicted 22 minutes). Thanks to David, I made my appointment, and also got a great story out of it.

My second Uber had just immigrated from the Dominican Republic and spoke almost no English—except for one moment. We were having a basic conversation about life down in the Carribean, when he stopped me and said in near-perfect, incredibly serious English “look at that”. I turned my head to see an incredibly beautiful woman who I suppose, in his eyes, must have been Dominican. “I miss home” he went on to say, somberly.

My final Uber was an retired NASA engineer named Oladele. He was bored of not meeting people, so the chagrin of his three kids (who are all surgical residents at Johns Hopkins) and his wife, he started driving Uber. I discovered this when I asked him about his Tesla, which his kids bought for him as a present to say “we hate the fact you’re driving Uber, but we might as well support you”. He came to the US from Southern Nigeria in 1992, after the following sequence of events:

  1. He goes with his cousin to the US embassy, because his cousin had a visa interview.
  2. He makes small talk with the clerk to pass the time.
  3. Turns out, the clerk knows his brother.
  4. The clerk tells him to come back next week and apply for an US visa, if he wants.
  5. Oladele comes back and applies.
  6. He ends up in the US. Fast forward 25 years that encompasses college in the US, grad school, marriage, a successful engineering career, and three children.
  7. One of Oladele’s American college classmates ends up being one of his passengers. He asks “you were top of our class and now you’re driving Uber? What happened?”
  8. Oladele explains he just retired from a job at NASA. His classmate is no longer worried. He and his classmate grab a drink later that night.
  9. Turns out, the classmate just spent a week in Nigeria, where he met the same embassy clerk — 25 years later.