Marriage Advice, Courtesy of Uber

Of all places, the backseat of an Uber has become a portal for strangers to hand me their love stories.

Twice in the past few weeks, I’ve stepped into a stranger’s car and walked out carrying fragments of their love stories. Both men, both re-married, unreasonably open. Maybe it was the strange honesty born of knowing we’d never meet again. Maybe it was me, willing to play the mirror.

Meet Uber Driver 1: we’ll call him Ricky
Ricky picked me up on a Friday night, heading to dinner with a friend. It started with the usual questions. Where I was from, what plans I had for the weekend. Then politics entered the room and before I knew it, we were deep in immigration reform and ICE raids. Not exactly small talk.

He told me about his family and friends who had been deported, and how some of their own relatives had voted for the very administration enforcing those deportations. His mix of anger and disbelief was raw, and yet he spoke with the clarity of a Cuban immigrant who knows what it is to escape one system seeking freedom and then watch his own family deported by the country that promised it.

Eventually, the conversation drifted toward love. Ricky was happily remarried for the third time, expecting a child. I ask him “How do you make it to a third marriage without becoming completely hopeless?” and he laughed. His answer stuck with me: if you have to force it, the cycle’s already over. Then he hit me with this line: “El amor debe ser divertido, respetuoso, sin tener que poner demasiado esfuerzo.” Love should be fun, respectful, and not an uphill battle.

Meet Uber Driver 2: we’ll call him Armando
Armando drove me to therapy on a rainy Wednesday. He was visibly stressed, yelling at Miami drivers (largely understandable) and sighing at every red light. When I asked how his day was, he unloaded: traffic, exhaustion, and the weight of caring for his mother’s mental illness. Heavy stuff.

So in an attempt to shift the mood, since traffic wasn’t getting any better and this guy needed a break. I asked him what he enjoyed doing outside of work. Without hesitation, he said: dancing. His face lit up. Suddenly he was telling me about the decade he spent in Madrid teaching salsa:

“Let me tell you something, I taught half of Madrid how to dance” he claimed.

Traffic gave us time, so he pulled out photos. There he was at 40, six pack and all (he made sure I noticed), then pictures of his wife. And this is where I was caught off guard, not because of the photos, but because of how he spoke about her. “This is the love of my life,” he said, eyes shining. “Look at her. Isn’t she the sexiest woman you’ve ever seen? Her eyes, her body, her humor.. we laugh all day.”

I asked if it was his first marriage. Nope, his second. The first ended because they grew apart. Two different people in two different seasons in life. But this one? He was all in, and it showed.

I usually ask how long couples have been together, it helps me tell if the spark is just honeymoon energy or something that’s really stood the test of time. He said they’d just celebrated 17 years.

And then it happened, the Hans Zimmer moment. One second silence, the next, the radio playing Zimmer at full volume. I casually mentioned that he had a concert coming up in Miami. His eyes widened: “How do YOU know Hans Zimmer?” he asked, completely serious.

He looked at me through the rearview mirror, searching for an answer. I didn’t give him one. Instead, I just smirked, letting him wrestle with the fact that his assumptions had already failed him.

By the time the ride was over, he knew how to box breathe and not to underestimate the woman in the back seat. He taught me how to laugh in traffic. Then we both went our separate ways.

What stayed with me

One: I want someone to talk about me as passionately and lovingly as Armando talked about his wife—to a complete stranger, in the middle of traffic.

Two: Ricky had a point. Love doesn’t need to be forced. Cycles end, people outgrow each other, and maybe that’s ok.

If all things carry an ending, why do we define love as immortal and then settle for tolerable? Maybe it’s the same reason we trust the mask until the mask turns, catches our eye, and smirks.