Carlos the Ancient

Does Uber have any qualification testing?

It wasn’t his age. It wasn’t his legal blindness. It wasn’t the hard-to-define odor in his chariot—his inability to speak English—his flag or the pictures of his great grandkids on the visor.

It was the fucked up way he drove.

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A few weeks ago my bride and I flew to Miami to visit some close friends and enjoy the February lifestyle of Coconut Grove. We were ready. Ann had packed her most colorful blouses. I had my Panama hat and stogies. We both packed shorts—God forbid anyone see our 2% milk-colored Winter legs unsheathed—but hey we were ready.

Anyone who has traveled through MIA knows it as a singularly worldly experience. Built in 1928 and one of the remaining true metropolitan locations among large domestic airports—it has a certain aged cheddar smell and moist demeanor to it. In 2021 Miami International became the busiest US cargo airport and also the busiest US international gateway airport—surpassing LAX and New York’s JFK.

Inside MIA nothing about ingress and egress is easy. Narrow hallways—tiny gate areas—and a confusing we just added that wing a few dozen years ago feel to the overall design navigation.

Once you’re on the curb seeking ground transportation it’s no better. Two decks of double lanes feed into departures and arrivals. Families, Ubers, Lyfts, and metro cabs jockey and force their way to the curb like Lewis Hamilton diving for the first turn at at the Austin F1 race.

The good news—there is some—is that somehow it works. And because of its in-city location—MIA is a relatively short hop to any local environs.

Ann and I dragged our rollies through the United Nations crowd—interlocking and intercepting large families and small nations chattering and trying to follow their sign-hoisting hoisting guides. Weaving back and forth through this blend were sunburned—large—and mostly drunken Midwesterners returning from their Royal Caribbean or Carnival nightmares.

We valiantly made it outside to the lower level and began recon for our Uber transport.

Our hosts—presently lounging in their waterside penthouse awaiting our arrival—had said it’ll be 20 minutes door to door—tops!

It had taken us that long just to get from the gate to aforementioned curb.

My app said we were looking for a black Nissan Maxima—I had chosen proximity over comfort and luxury. Our driver would be Carlos and he was four minutes away. For the next 20 minutes Carlos was four minutes away. After debating a quick bail to the nearby Yellow Cab line—I finally spotted him. Unlike the Hamilton-esque competitors around him—Carlos was inching his way to the curb like a rented mule. We should have bailed.

Forty minutes after landing—I texted Andy—again. We’re finally mobile and on our way!

Only we weren’t yet. Carlos slow-limped his way around the back of the car and insisted on picking up our rollies. Once he finally opened the trunk I took over and loaded our precious tropical attire. Ann and I both patiently kept our visages locked in tight smiles and looked at each other with a wink—here we go.

The Carlos wagon leapt forward 20 feet—then stopped cold—throwing us back then forward in an alarming manner. Ann quickly put on her seat belt. This was repeated every 20 feet all the way out from under the deck above. I glanced over the back seat to see both of his firmly planted on the pedals—left on brake—right on accelerator. I could barely see over the back of the front seat due to its close proximity to the instrument panel. Could there be actual legs attached to those feet? There can’t be room.

My map app said 6.8 miles and 17 minutes at 5 pm on a Thursday afternoon. It took us a full 40 minutes of back and forth back seat gynmastics. Carlos actually had to lean in to look at the dash-mounted maps app on his phone. There was literally no room to lean into—but he pulled it off. When he did—he’d stomp the brake pedal.

We were so relieved by the time we actually arrived in one piece that I felt compelled to tip a full 20%. Uber app asked for my review and I just couldn’t. My mind went to 93-year-old Cuban Carlos’ lot in life. The bill for his inch-thick specs alone had to be astronomical. And the shoes he must go through driving two-footed like that. And the air freshener. After waving him off at the back of the car I unloaded our cargo and we disembarked to the safety of the curb.

A peaceful weekend of boating and supping and walking and Cuban dancing ensued.

Late Sunday morning we waited on the curb in a light rain for our carriage back to MIA. As the 20-year-old Nissan—what is it about Nissans?—arrived and our elderly Cuban driver introduced himself as Luis—all I could come up with was do you know Carlos?