What Can we Learn from Strangers? 

My mother and I settled into a shuttle hired to take us to a family dinner. Mom is comfortable in the back while I’m tucked into the passenger side that’s too close to the dash, even for a short-legged person like me. But it was a 15-minute trip and not worth adjusting the seat.

Our conversation with our driver started on cruise control, with the ordinary openers: How are you today? Where are you going? Where are you from? 

 We meandered through topics, and the effect was like approaching a cautionary yellow light where one relies on instinct: speed up or slow down.    

It started with my telling our affable driver that I was from Philadelphia visiting family in Columbia, Missouri, over the holidays.

“Philadelphia? They had a garbage workers’ strike this summer, right?” he said.

Did I want to talk trash? No, but I had empathy for the city workers and their families.

“It was awful,” I said, shaking my head as I imagined the stench in the July heat. I lived outside the city limits, far away from the smelly situation. However, I had friends who lived in the city who worried about the strike, especially after hauling their garbage to pickup sites with mounting piles.

Our driver, a man who probably juggled several jobs, sided with the union, believing Philadelphia’s mayor should have paid the workers, not let them go on strike. The strike lasted eight long days.

Philly is a union town. Unions thrive in the City of Brotherly Love. Last summer, the city’s Union 33, comprised of about 9,000 workers, went on strike before Independence Day, when tourists outnumber cheesesteaks. Besides sanitation workers, Union 33 members also include custodians, security guards, and others who work in the public library system, which meant many libraries, which serve as cooling centers in the summer, were closed. 

Closed due to staffing. Closed because of safety concerns. Closed in solidarity. (Because the librarians who belong to another union lent their support to their co-workers.)

We developed a rapport and continued talking. I learned our driver wasn’t a native Midwesterner. He grew up in North Carolina, far from the coast. He longed to visit the East Coast, see the Atlantic Ocean—from the shore, not a boat, thank you. Yes, he also wanted to see Philadelphia.

Did I recite the region’s historic sites, naming the Liberty Bell, Independence Hall, and Valley Forge? Yes. Did I kick off bragging about the Eagles? No, that’s too serious. He wasn’t wearing a Chiefs hat, but why remind him of the bitter taste of defeat? Did I remember to mention the popular shows “It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia” or “Abbott Elementary”? Yes, of course. Or pick an easy subject to chew on, like our famous food scene? We ran out of time.   

Without hesitating, he says he’d like to see the Rocky statue rather than the Liberty Bell. He’s not alone in his fandom. Rocky draws hordes of tourists who run up the art museum’s seventy-two steps like the character Rocky.  

Meanwhile, we were halfway to my brother’s house. It’s partly sunny with temperatures in the upper 60s. It’s the Friday after Christmas, and I assumed from the sparse traffic that the transport business had a light week.  

The transport business was not slow despite the holiday week, he said, explaining he drove dialysis patients to their appointments on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. These treatments are vital for those suffering from kidney failure or diagnosed with kidney disease.

“I admire their positive attitude,” he said, adding that they gave him inspiration.

Our silence suggested we agreed our worries were few and small in comparison. I stared out the window, sad but grateful. Gratitude is appreciating what we have in the present tense.

Over two million people worldwide treat kidney disease with dialysis or a kidney transplant, according to the Cleveland Clinic’s website. A staggering number.  

But I had met a stranger who drove a shuttle delivering compassion along with a ride.