Two Langdon, Two Stories

Two stories, two decades apart—one night of reckoning, another of quiet realization—both unfolding on Langdon Street, where love, longing, and the weight of unspoken truths find their place in the city’s memory.

Madison, Wisconsin, is a city of lakes and layered lives. Here, love winds its way into the corners of quiet streets and the conversations of strangers. Langdon Street, running parallel to the hum of the University of Wisconsin, has always been a backdrop for stories of love. Some are fleeting, like fireflies on a summer night. Others stretch, bend, and reshape themselves over decades.

Seven Years Ago

It was 6:02 AM on a humid August Madison morning, warm and hazy with the smell of blue-green algae coming off Lake Mendota. The students were just returning, and they didn’t want to miss an opportunity to have a party. Langdon Street had been electric the night before — music, laughter, bodies spilling from porches — but now, it seemed to hold its breath. The air felt thick, sticky with the ghosts of cheap beer and sweat. A lone student, still in last night’s clothes, shuffled past with his shoes in one hand and a McMuffin in the other.

Red Solo cups littered front yards, the debris of a thousand unspoken stories.

My Uber app pinged, and I was brought back to the present: pickup at Two Langdon, destination Marriott in Middleton.

Tommy stepped out of the apartment building, his white shirt off by one button, his hair a mess of effort and exhaustion.

“Hi,” he said, leaning into the open passenger window. “Mind if I sit up front? I get motion sickness if I sit in the back seat.”

“Of course,” I said, unlocking the door.

He climbed in, buckled up, and exhaled heavily. His sigh carried the weight of something tangled.

“Thanks. It’s been... a night.”

We drove in silence for a moment before he turned to me.

“Can I ask you something personal?”

“Go for it.”

“Are you gay?”

The question caught me off guard for half a second. “Yeah,” I said, smiling. “What gave it away?”

“Your bumper sticker,” he said, nodding toward the Human Rights Campaign logo. “My brother’s gay. You just give off the same vibe.”

“Well, good guess.”

More silence. Then:

“Last night, I hooked up with someone.”

“How’d that go?”

“It was amazing. She’s amazing,” he said before pausing. “But... she’s my best friend’s sister.”

I glanced at him. “That’s complicated.”

“Yeah,” he said with a nervous laugh. “But it wasn’t just random. I like her. I think I’ve always liked her.”

“How long?”

“Forever, probably. But I never let myself think about it. Last night... it just happened. And now I can’t stop thinking about her.”

He told me about his long-term relationship — how it had ended, how it had defined so much of his early adulthood.

“Last night was the first time I felt like I could move forward.”

By the time we reached the Marriott, Tommy seemed lighter, like he’d left some of his hesitation in the car.

“Thanks for listening,” he said, stepping out.

Two Langdon Street, for Tommy, had become more than an address. It was the moment where something shifted, where a quiet truth surfaced.

Almost Thirty Years Ago

Two Langdon Street meant something different to me.

Decades before Tommy’s morning ride, it was where I lived as a student. But I met Davin at the School of Music — a friend, a classmate, a grad student. Older, impossibly charming, magnetic in a way that made people feel like they belonged.

For two years, we were inseparable. Baking. Watching movies. Closing out bars. But most nights, I walked home alone while Davin stayed behind, flirting or hooking up with someone new.

It was an interesting time. I was very, very large. Probably 280 pounds. It’s incredible how the bigger you are at a gay bar, the more invisible you feel. You could plant yourself at the bar, sip a drink, and watch the room move right through you. Once, a guy bumped into me, turned to apologize, and then blinked like he was seeing me for the first time — even though I’d been standing there for 45 minutes.

That summer, I worked at UPS, shedding 70 pounds and gaining muscle. People noticed. Even Ben, Davin’s shallow boyfriend, noticed.

Davin didn’t.

Not in the way I wanted.

We had planned to move to Boston together, but I left six months earlier. I had to, as the start of my first semester at the New England Conservatory of Music was about to commence. By the time Davin arrived, I had found my independence.

Boston brought new beginnings. Including Julie.

Julie had been a good friend in undergrad, but in Boston, she became something more — a steadying force when I felt like I might drift away.

She was an amazing listener, the kind who absorbed not just words but the emotions behind them. She never rushed to offer solutions or platitudes; she just sat with me in the hard moments, letting me process at my own pace.

Julie had a way of making people feel truly seen. And she reminded me that my story wasn’t just about unrequited love — it was about how I chose to move forward.

She had a bright smile, beautifully coiffed hair, and a love for red — especially her shoes. Whether it was a scarf, a handbag, or those unforgettable heels, red followed her like a signature.

When I told her about Davin — about the weight of loving someone who couldn’t love me back — she didn’t offer false optimism or tell me to be grateful for the friendship.

She just nodded, exhaled, and said, “That’s brutal.”

It was exactly what I needed: acknowledgment.

Julie helped me redefine love — not just the kind you ache for, but the kind you build. With people who show up. Who listen. Who stay.

Love and Place

Stories don’t just happen in cities — they settle into them. Into street corners and shadowed doorways. Into the places that once held uncertainty and now hum with meaning.

For Tommy, Langdon Street was the place where a quiet longing surfaced.

For me, it was where I learned that love — whether fleeting, complicated, or unspoken — doesn’t always fit the story we want to tell.

Some places change. Some don’t. Some people stay. Some don’t.

And some stories just hang in the air, waiting for someone else to pick them up.

This is a work of creative nonfiction. The events are true, though details have been adjusted for clarity, and some names have been changed to protect privacy.

Author’s Note: This is a work of creative nonfiction. While the events and emotions are true, some details have been adjusted for clarity, and names have been changed to protect privacy.

State Champs, City Chaos

What can I say? Driving Uber late at night isn’t always magic and inspiration…

You’d have thought it was the world’s biggest bachelor party.
You’d have thought prohibition was about to start, like there’d never be another drop of alcohol served again.
You’d have thought it wasn’t 2025, like we hadn’t made any progress at all.

The streets of Madison were teeming with dads, coaches, and bros in town for the state high school tournament, alongside others who were just here to party. Most of my riders were visitors, and their behavior screamed it—doing whatever they wanted, bringing chaos. Not just any chaos—more than you'd expect from grown adults. Complete, reckless chaos. The kind where you could almost feel the hangovers settling in before the night even ended.

As I drove down Main Street, I approached Martin Luther King Jr. Boulevard, then King Street just beyond it. (Yes, we have two King Streets in a row...) Ahead, police lights flickered against the buildings. A handful of men lay flat on the pavement, wrists zip-tied behind them. Others staggered nearby, their breath visible in the cold night air. A few shouted at officers, voices slurred and defiant. Further down the street, more guys were jumping around, hyped up on booze and bravado, their hollers cutting through the night like sirens of their own making.

I exhaled sharply. Violence unfolding near MLK Boulevard. The contradiction was almost too much.

Madison prides itself on being an intelligent city—degrees, culture, progress. But some nights, it feels like none of that matters. The food scene is top-tier. The arts thrive. Health and wellness are part of our DNA—our gyms are full, runners train year-round, and the bike paths are always buzzing. Even our love of sports is more than just cheering on the Badgers; it’s woven into the city’s fabric.

Some visitors treat this place with respect. These guys? Not so much. They weren’t here for the city. They were here to take it over for the night. They were here to be loud, to take up space, to act like they owned the place.

There’s a quiet pride in being from here—a sense that we do things a little differently, that respect for this place runs deep. But in that moment, it felt out of place. These men weren’t from here, and it was obvious they didn’t carry that same reverence.

The homophobia was thick—slurs flying in a city that should be better than this. The misogyny wasn’t far behind. You’d have thought they didn’t have wives, girlfriends, or daughters at home. These weren’t just microaggressions; these were macroaggressions. Alcohol had unlocked something uglier in them.

They carried on, tossing out insults and disrespect like discarded beer cans, oblivious to the world beyond the mess they were making. It was ugly. Impossible to ignore.

I paused, just taking it all in. The irony hit me harder than I expected. Streets named for ideals that Madison supposedly holds dear—dignity, respect, progress—felt smothered under the weight of contradiction.

I shook my head and picked up my pace.

Earlier, a rider had asked how late I’d be driving. My answer? Until I get annoyed.

Tonight, annoyed didn’t even begin to cover it. Furious was more like it. I logged off and drove home.

The irony of the irony? These guys were excellent tippers. I guess money smooths over a lot—until it doesn’t.

Sequins and Shadows

There are moments in life that stop you in your tracks—moments when a stranger’s words, their unexpected wisdom, change the way you see the world.

It was early Sunday morning when I pulled up outside a Beltline nightclub, waiting for my next passenger. The door swung open, and Jenny Lee made her entrance—or rather, her valiant attempt to get into my VW Taos. The car isn’t exactly tiny, but fitting a 7-foot drag queen in full glam is a feat in itself. She maneuvered her long legs carefully, making sure not to slam anything in the door. Once she settled, the car felt smaller. Her presence filled it, larger than life—almost outgrowing even the spacious backseat.

“You must be Daniel,” she declared with a knowing smile.

Only my mother and drag queens ever called me Daniel. But I kind of liked it. In my Uber, Daniel felt like an alternate version of myself, a character I played for a few hours each night. It added a certain charm to the role.

“Yes, but you can call me Dan,” I replied, catching her in the rearview mirror.

“Nope,” she said with a teasing grin. “I really can’t. You are definitely a Daniel to me.”

With her 6’6” frame—plus another six inches with the heels and hair—Jenny was impossible to miss. Her blonde tendrils framed a face still glowing from the night. Mascara clung to her lashes in clumps, a telltale sign of an evening nearing its end. But her sequined dress still shimmered in the glow of passing streetlights, and her energy was magnetic, unapologetic, entirely her own.

“Jenny Lee,” she said, extending a manicured hand.

“It’s really nice meeting you, Jenny Lee.”

She adjusted her purse, settling into the backseat. “People are more accepting in Madison,” she said. She was from one of those Wisconsin ‘Wau’ towns—Waukesha, Waunakee, Waupaca, or Wausau. Before I could guess which, Jenny pulled me back with her voice.

“Small-town charm doesn’t exactly scream sequins and stilettos,” she said with a chuckle. “I’m from a very conservative family. I just couldn’t dress like this anywhere but here.”

I nodded, charmed by her effortless candor.

“Well, you look fantastic,” I said, genuinely impressed by her confidence and style.

Jenny flashed a smile, clearly accustomed to turning heads. “Thank you, sweetheart. You’re very kind.”

I shared that I wasn’t always super kind, and we laughed because, honestly, I do appreciate the kindness in myself—especially when it’s wrapped in Midwest sarcasm. I told her how, in 2008, I had cancer and only beat it because I was “too mean to die.” That got a hearty laugh from her. That line usually does in my Uber.

Talking about cancer seemed to open something up in her.

“I spent some time in federal prison—Terre Haute,” she said, her tone steady, as though the words no longer carried the weight they once did. “It saved my life, honestly. You don’t get to stay at rock bottom. Even with cockroaches and all.”

The words hit me harder than I expected, though I didn’t show it. There was something about the way she spoke, matter-of-factly, that made the experience sound almost surreal. A moment of rock bottom that became a turning point. I felt the weight of it—the rawness in her admission—and for a brief second, I imagined what it would take to find the strength to climb out of something that dark.

I thought about my own moments of hardship, and how Jenny's words made me realize that strength doesn't always come from erasing the past but learning to move forward despite it. That’s where the real transformation lies.

Then she added something that stuck with me:

“The next moment matters more than the one that broke you.”

I mulled over her words. There was something powerful in the simplicity of them. Life doesn’t often give us the luxury of moving past things easily, of neatly tying up our pain with a bow. But her words offered a different kind of perspective—a challenge, almost. To think that every moment after hardship, every new second, holds more potential than the one that shattered you. It felt like a quiet but profound reminder that resilience isn’t always about forgetting the past; sometimes, it’s about finding the courage to move forward despite it.

As we reached her hotel, she hesitated before opening the door. “Hey, you should come upstairs. We could keep chatting for a while.”

I gave a small, apologetic smile. “I’ve got to get going, Jenny. Maybe another time.”

She gave a nod, not pressing the matter further, but her eyes held something I couldn’t quite place.

As I drove away, I glanced in the rearview mirror, but Jenny Lee was already a fading figure in the darkness. The hum of the engine filled the silence. I couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something unfinished, something about her that didn’t quite add up. But maybe that’s just how it goes sometimes—one moment, someone leaves you with a thought that sticks, and the next, they're gone.

Strength, Warmth, and a New Year's Lesson

Driving Uber on New Year’s Day in Madison, Wisconsin, is unpredictable. One moment, it’s chaotic; the next, eerily quiet—especially with 50,000 students gone for winter break. Each ride is a glimpse into a life, a brief intersection of journeys. But on this day, two encounters lingered—reminders of resilience, of the quiet struggles people carry, and of the unexpected warmth we find in strangers.

My first rider of the morning was Carley, who almost didn’t make it to my Uber. I waited at the pickup spot, an apartment right next to Ian's Pizza on Frances Street. I was watching the timer count down to when I’d be “allowed” to cancel. Just as I considered it, I spotted her hugging a friend goodbye before rushing toward my car. She hopped in, breathless but smiling, with a single minute to spare.

“Thank you for waiting. Sorry I’m late,” she said as she settled in.

I nodded and drove off. As we pulled away, I realized how glad I was that I hadn’t canceled.

Carley grew up five hours north of Madison in a small Wisconsin town, much like where my father and stepmother live—rural, tight-knit, and naturally beautiful. But it was also a place where being half Indigenous and half Black wasn’t easy.

“I got beat up a lot,” she admitted when I asked what that was like. “But it made me tough and resilient.”

She nodded, her smile small but knowing—like someone who had moved past the pain but still carried its lessons. I could relate, being near-constantly tormented and bullied was hell, but also what made me what I am today.

Even so, I couldn’t stop myself.

“That’s some bullshit,” I said—referring to the racism, not her lesson learned, because it was.

Carley was a first-generation college student at UW-Madison, her education fully funded by a scholarship program influenced by the late Chancellor Rebecca Blank—a leader I deeply respected.

“Well,” I said with a wry smile, “we did steal your land. The least we can do is pay for you to go to school.”

Carley laughed. “Well, exactly.”

But it was more than a laugh—it was a knowing laugh, one that carried generations of history, fights won and lost, and a future still unfolding. And here she was, claiming her place in it.

But she wasn’t stopping there. “I want to keep going,” she said with quiet determination, outlining her plans to attend UW’s law school.

She mentioned being involved with the student Indigenous group. “It has its own complexities,” she said, smiling—hinting at stories for another time. Then she shared something else about her family that made me grin.

“My uncle Jack is married to another man—also named Jack.”

“That’s amazing,” I said, laughing. She laughed too.

As we neared her destination, I leaned into something I like to do when I truly enjoy someone’s company.

“With about a minute left, I just want to say—I’ve really enjoyed this. I hope our paths cross again.”

She smiled. “Me too.”

Before she stepped out, I gave my usual reminder: “Do you have your phone, wallet, keys?”

Sure enough, Carley laughed and said, “Oh no—my keys!” She found them wedged between the seat and her coat and flashed me a grateful smile. “That would’ve been a mess.”

As I drove away, Carley’s story stayed with me—not just as a tale of personal strength, but as a reminder of the invisible battles people fight every day. How many others, like Carley, had to be stronger than they should have had to be? And how many just needed one opportunity—one door not closed—to change everything?

While Carley’s story was one of perseverance and ambition, my next rider, Mae, showed resilience in a different but equally powerful way.

Mae rolled up in her wheelchair at the curb, a rolling suitcase beside her, heading to the airport. I stepped out to greet her. “How can I help?” It’s how I approach the unknown—start by asking.

She smiled but hesitated. “I’m just so glad you didn’t drive off.”

Here I was thinking about logistics—her suitcase, her chair, the best way to help. I hadn’t thought about the number of times people had simply chosen to leave her behind.

Mae explained how often drivers see her wheelchair and simply leave, unwilling to provide the extra help she needs. Her voice carried a hint of sadness—a weary acceptance.

“Doesn’t that bother you?” I asked.

She tilted her head slightly. “It used to, but now, I just try to appreciate the ones who don’t.”

Mae was heading to Alabama, and I couldn’t resist a bit of Midwest sarcasm. “I’m sorry.”

She laughed, knowing it was all in good humor, and shared her excitement about visiting her sister and meeting her new baby niece. I admitted my husband and I had never been to Alabama, so I wasn’t exactly an expert.

Mae smiled. “I’m a lesbian,” she said, “and weirdly, I’ve felt a kind recognition there.”

I hesitated, then grinned. “You must be something of a wonderful, unique, rainbow-carrying unicorn.”

Mae laughed warmly. “You’re not wrong,” she said, adding that she was trying to convince her sister to move to Madison for its inclusivity. When her sister protested about the cold, I hopped in and said that she should tell her, "There's no bad weather, just bad wardrobe."

Mae laughed, but then she delivered something better:

“I’d rather live in cold weather with warm people than the opposite.”

It was perfect. It wasn’t just a witty comeback—it was a truth that stretched beyond temperature and geography. It was about the choices we make, about the kind of life we build, and the people we surround ourselves with. Mae had spent her life moving through a world that too often dismissed her, yet she had found a way to seek out warmth—not in climate, but in community.

Both Carley and Mae embodied resilience, each in their own way. Carley, toughened by her upbringing, driven by ambition, and actively carving out her future at UW, reminded me of the power of education and opportunity. Mae, navigating a world that too often overlooks her, carried humor and grace, reminding me that real strength isn’t always loud or defiant—it’s the quiet persistence of believing in kindness when the world gives you every reason not to.

From Carley and Mae, I carry a few lessons for the new year.

Strength isn’t always about pushing forward. Sometimes, it’s about holding on—to warmth, to kindness, to the belief that even in a cold world, people can still be good to each other. And remembering your phone, keys, and wallet.

Between Chardonnay and Resilience

It was Tuesday, January 21, and Madison had decided to remind me why I lived here—-10 degrees, sharp enough to freeze your breath. I stood at my house, waiting for the Uber to rescue me, while my husband’s car sat stranded at his gym. Family health issues were weighing on my mind, and nothing about the morning felt easy. It had been a while since I’d called for a ride, but in that moment, it seemed like the only option. As I waited, I thought back to a ride I’d had just a few days earlier—one that made me shake my head and laugh at the absurdity of it all.

Jamie had been one of my riders. What was supposed to be a 10 a.m. pick-up turned into a 10:20 departure—she had kept me waiting, like I was her personal chauffeur. When she finally descended the stairs of her over-the-top McMansion in Bishop’s Bay, she waved apologetically.

“No problem,” I said, even though 20 minutes of sitting there was hardly the worst thing in the world. I was getting paid for it, after all.

Jamie was charming—chatty, friendly, and funny—but there was an earnestness to her complaints that was almost endearing. It was like she genuinely thought life could always be just a bit better, like she had some cosmic right to perfect service.

“I mean, Char-do-nay. What am I, a Real Housewife?” she asked, dramatically slumping into the seat.

I smiled. “They can’t treat you like that.”

“I know! So, I wrote the CEO of Delta,” she said, dead serious. “And to make matters worse, my seat wouldn’t recline, and the WiFi didn’t work!”

I could almost see her indignation hanging in the air, as cold and sharp as the weather. Was it privilege, or just human nature to complain when something doesn’t go as planned? Sure, her complaints were ridiculous, but weren’t we all guilty of overreacting when things didn’t go our way?

As I watched the cold world pass by, I realized I wasn’t the only one living through a tough moment. The absurdity of Jamie’s outrage was just a small piece of the picture—there were bigger things at play. Then, a gold Prius appeared, pulling me out of the cold and into something warmer.

Ramesh’s car wasn’t new, but it felt like an oasis. The heater blasted, but it was his smile that made me feel like I’d stepped into a pocket of warmth. The usual small talk about the weather quickly shifted when Ramesh told me that Madison schools would close tomorrow. It was so cold, even the kids had to stay inside.

He was chatty, and before I knew it, we were deep in conversation. I asked the usual question I get as an Uber driver: “So, how long have you been driving?”

“About 10 years,” he said. “I used to work for Oscar Mayer. But when Kraft Heinz took over, things changed. They eventually shut down the Madison plant. That was my life for years. When it ended... well, I had to keep going. Driving gave me that.”

I remembered the plant closing—the moment when everything shifted, leaving so many people, like Ramesh, searching for something new. He had found it in driving, meeting people, hearing stories. And it reminded me of my own story. I had left a job in Miami, unsure of what came next. Like Ramesh, I needed to keep moving. But for me, driving wasn’t just a way to survive—it became the bridge to something else.

“I’ve met so many people, heard so many stories,” Ramesh said. “It reminds me that there’s still a lot of good people out there.”

I thought about that as we drove. We all face unexpected change, moments that rewrite the life we thought we were living. Progress doesn’t come without its messes, but somehow, we carry on.

When Ramesh dropped me off at my husband’s gym, the cold hit me again—brutal, like a slap. I stepped out, thanked him, and headed inside, replaying the day in my mind.

Jamie and Ramesh—two riders, each with their own reality. Their lives were worlds apart, but in that shared moment, their stories intersected with mine. One made me laugh; the other made me think. But both reminded me of something crucial—Uber isn’t just a ride. It’s a space where lives briefly touch, where we glimpse something deeper, even if just for a minute.

Sometimes, it’s the warmth of a car on a bitter day. Other times, it’s the solidarity of two strangers navigating their paths. And sometimes, it’s just Chardonnay.

Memory, Architecture, and What Remains

Lately, I’ve been losing pieces of my past—small things, big things, all of it. And it scares me.

A conversation I had last week I simply can’t quite recall. The name of a restaurant I know I’ve been to—vanished. A book recommendation someone gave me that’s already slipped through the cracks.

I used to think memory was permanent, like a skyline—a structure built to last. But now, I’m not so sure. Some things remain, sharp and defined. Others disappear without warning, like buildings demolished overnight.

A friend (code word for therapist) recently encouraged me to start journaling. “Write things down before you forget them,” she offered.

Ugh… I thought. I hate journaling. And yet, here I am, doing exactly what she suggested—writing down these moments in what I now call Driven By Stories. Because some things deserve to be remembered.

And then suddenly a ding and a ping from my phone pulls me back. Airport run, my favorite.

I accept the ride and glance down to find the pickup location. The streets are quiet, caught between the last late-night stragglers and the coming new year. The idea that there are late-night stragglers the day prior to New Year’s Eve makes me smile. Incidentally, New Year’s Eve Eve? I call it New Year’s Adam. Because Adam comes before Eve. I know. It’s a terrible joke, but I stand by it. Now those are some real ‘professional’, ‘committed’, (substance abusing?) partiers… Those who go out before the big night, but then my mind returns. I follow the familiar route toward the pin on my screen, my mind still circling the thought of those partiers and the things that disappear.

I pull up to the curb. My passenger is already waiting. He’s thin with straight black hair and has a big backpack slung over one shoulder. He slips into the back seat, settling in as I tap the screen to start the ride.

"Happy New Year's Eve," I say.

"Happy New Year," he replies, his accent thick but confident.

I confirm his destination. "Going anywhere good?"

"New York," he says. "For the big ball drop."

“That’s amazing,” I declare.

We begin to chat. He’s young. I’d guess early twenties, a UW-Madison student studying computer science, polite but full of anticipation.

"First time?" I ask.

He nods. "I want to see the buildings."

Not the crowds. Not the celebration. The buildings.

That catches me off guard. "What kind of buildings?"

He shrugs, then smiles. "Not small ones," he says after a thoughtful pause.

I laugh. "Fair enough."

The streetlights blur past us. My thoughts begin to wander again, slipping back into the cracks between remembering and forgetting.

I ask if he likes Frank Lloyd Wright and whether he’ll see the Guggenheim. He says he’ll go, but not inside.

"The real art is outside," the student says suddenly, pulling me back. "The art inside can be from anywhere. The inside can be anything. But the true value of how a city appreciates culture is based on the architecture outside."

His words settle over me, shifting something in my mind.

He tells me he’s from Suzhou, a city near Shanghai, famous for its canals and ancient gardens. But when he talks about it, there’s no nostalgia in his voice. He speaks about the past like a foundation—something strong but not something to stay on. His fascination is with what comes next.

"New York," he says again, stretching out the word, like saying it makes the city more real. "I want to see it. The skyline is," he hesitates, searching for the right word, “infinite!”

His face lights up, and I ask if he’s been to Chicago.

His smile widens. "Yes! Of course!"

And suddenly a memory transports me; I’m somewhere else.

Chicago, 2000. A river architecture tour with my mom and a boyfriend I barely think about anymore. I remember learning about two of the three great 20th-century architects—Frank Lloyd Wright, Mies Van Der Rohe—but forgetting the third.

Damn it. Who is the third? Sure, I could just JFGI (Just F*cking Google It), but what fun would that be? And naturally, it would hit me at 2 a.m. when there was no one to impress—Le Corbusier. Sigh…

It’s odd what memory holds onto. Names rarely escape me, but details do.

And that’s what worries me. The gaps. The spaces between what I know and what I’ve already lost.

His excitement brings me back.

"The skyline tells a city’s story," the student says. "Even after everything inside has changed."

I glance in the rearview mirror. He’s looking out the window, watching Madison’s low skyline slip past.

It sticks with me—the way he sees permanence where I see impermanence.

I ask if he’s nervous about traveling—about coming back.

He shakes his head. "No. I am lucky. I have what I need. Papers. Everything proper."

A pause. Then, quieter, "And if I get stuck, I will… figure it out."

He is neither fearful nor defiant—just practical.

At the airport, I ask if he needs help, as I always do. He thanks me, smiles, and disappears into the terminal.

I pull away, circling the airport loop, thinking about architecture and memory—the way they can disappear or seemingly last forever.

Maybe that’s why I’m writing Driven By Stories. Not because I love journaling—I don’t. But because some things shouldn't simply disappear in the rearview mirror.

Confessions from the Front Seat

Some Uber rides are just point A to point B. Others? They’re full of snoring bears, Tolkien debates, and diplomats on the run.

Every ride starts as a simple transaction—a driver, a passenger, and a destination. But more often than not, it turns into something else: a journey of discovery, whether across town, across countries, or through the twists and turns of our own lives.

Half a minute into the 40-minute ride to Mount Horeb, she was out. And not a peaceful kind of asleep—deep, bear-in-hibernation snoring that made me wonder if I needed to call a doctor or a zookeeper.

I glanced in the rearview mirror, half convinced she’d stopped breathing. Crisis averted—she was still alive, just treating my VW to a thunderous lullaby.

As my she-bear snuggled in, I woke her when we arrived at a steel gate, greeted by barking dogs and her pajama-clad grandfather. For her, it was just a nap. For me, it was a masterclass in the art of sleeping through anything—and proof that even the dullest rides can take a weird turn.

The next rider? A young guy heading home after hanging out at his buddy’s girlfriend’s farmhouse. For once, I was smart enough not to ask for details. The real challenge wasn’t him—it was finding the house.

As we navigated out, he told me they had been “watching Netflix.” Which, I recently learned, is code. I didn’t pursue it. Instead, I changed the subject—movies.

His favorite? The Lord of the Rings trilogy.

“Really?” I said, laughing. “I could never sit through all three. Way too long for me.”

He looked at me like I’d just insulted Tolkien himself, his jaw dropping slightly. I explained.

“That is, until I had cancer. It finally forced me to sit still long enough to watch the whole trilogy. Three long nights in the hospital with The Lord of the Rings.”

“Cancer?” he asked. “Are you okay now?”

“It was Hodgkin’s lymphoma,” I said. “And yeah, I’m fine now. But not only did I have cancer—I also had a saddlebag pulmonary embolism. That’s the kind of blood clot that lodges itself on both sides of your lungs. It could’ve killed me. But here I am, alive and sharing stories with strangers in my car. I like to tell people I’m too mean to die.”

That earned a laugh, so I kept the momentum going.

“During one hospital stay, in UW Hospital’s TLC rooms—you know, their ‘almost’ version of ICU—I had this ridiculously handsome male nurse. Even my husband, Mark, agreed. We actually debated whether the nurse was gay. Mark said, ‘No way—he has a son.’ And I said, ‘Still gay.’”

I paused dramatically.

“Wouldn’t you know it? Five minutes later, the nurse casually mentioned his male partner—as if my room was bugged. I turned to Mark, breathing mask and all, and gave him the biggest, told-you-so smile I could muster.”

My young rider cracked up. “That’s really scary and really funny.”

Our ride, which started as an annoying search for his place, turned into something great. He came alive talking about Tolkien’s world, and for a moment, we weren’t driver and passenger but two people trading stories—his about hobbits and elves, mine about the unexpected battles life throws at you.

Later that night, I picked up two Epic employees—another 40-minute ride. My passengers were fully awake. The MyChart purveyors looked effortlessly polished, like they’d stepped straight out of Gossip Girl. They were buzzing with energy, heading to the airport for a whirlwind eight-day trip to Japan: Tokyo, Osaka, Hiroshima.

As they flipped between discussions of temples and sushi, their enthusiasm was infectious. We got to talking about travel, and I shared a story from another rider.

“I once picked up a short-story science-fiction writer, the son of a Madison-born diplomat in Moscow. He told me it was the best time to live there—especially since he’d just turned 18. At 18, you could drink in Moscow, where vodka wasn’t just a beverage—it was practically a way of life.

“One night, he and his best friend—the British diplomat’s son—were out drinking and causing a bit of trouble (I didn’t ask for details) when the cops showed up. Instinctively, they ran, completely forgetting they had diplomatic immunity. They tore through snowy streets until they reached the gates of the British Embassy. They slammed the gates shut just as the furious cops reached them. Safe behind the gates, they stood there laughing, realizing they could have simply walked.”

For him, Moscow was a playground, a place where youth and privilege blurred the edges of danger. But as he reflected, I realized something: the same privilege that once made him feel invincible might actually make him more vulnerable.

And then the ride ended.

The Epic travelers’ excitement for Japan was unmistakable, their energy contagious. Just like that, I was on to the next fare and the next story.

Whether we’re snoring in the back seat, laughing at life’s absurdity, or chasing some distant adventure, we’re all just trying to find our way.

And in my VW, I get a front-row seat to all of it.