FROM TAXI TALK TO EIGER VIEW

MARCH 6, 2025 – Today I left the Big City and winged my way over the Big Storm back to Big Lake Country. Yesterday evening I’d developed mild apprehension when reading the blizzard warning that NOAA (“Go, NOAA!”) for Minnesota overnight and into today: heavy snow, low visibility, and 40 mph winds with gusts up to 50 mph. I recalled the Delta jet that had flipped recently when landing in 40 mph winds in Toronto. “But that was a smaller, lighter Embraer,” I said to myself reassuringly. “You’ll be flying an Airbus 321.” Still, I didn’t want to repeat the landing at LaGuardia in a fierce crosswind 30 years ago, after circling for half an hour, then crabbing our way in on final; scariest flight I’ve ever experience. As it turned out, however, except for some mild chop over Lake Huron (and over the eastward moving blizzard below), today’s flight was entirely smooth. Our takeoff (on the same aircraft that had just arrived from Minneapolis) was only 20 minutes off the published schedule and landed nearly 40 minutes ahead of (the padded) designated time.

My half-hour, trouble-free ride to LaGuardia this morning included an unusually rewarding conversation with the driver. I got the conversation rolling by asking him if he’d “watched the speech last night.” He chuckled and said “Yes—until I fell asleep.” He turned out to be way too well informed to be a Trumper, but by the time he turned the corner off Central Park West, I’d steered the conversation away from politics. I was curious about the driver’s origins and background, and a few simple questions drew answers that worked as an effective substitute for caffein. Originally from Ghana, my driver had earned his university degree in . . . China. He spoke fluent Mandarin, and until being laid off during Covid, he’d worked for years as a translator at UBS. “Now that three of my four kids are grown up,” he said, “I can take it easy. I enjoy driving, and it’s a lot less stressful than my old job.”

Three of his kids are physicians, I learned, and the fourth, in his first year of college, is trying to decide between law and following his older siblings in medicine. “Tell him to pursue medicine,” I said. “As a lawyer whose life was saved by healthcare workers,” I said, “I can vouch for them.”

My driver agreed. He proceeded to tell me about his own medical tribulations—a serious accident that had nearly cost him his left leg. “My main doctor checked on me every single day for two months,” he said, “and was responsible for my complete recovery.”

“Well, there you go,” I said. “Tell your son that a lawyer-passenger of yours today strongly urges him to choose medicine over law.”

“Okay,” the driver laughed.

But I wanted to know more. What was the guy’s background, and how in the world had he wound up attending school in China? He explained that his father had been a top international sales manager for Guinness, starting at a relatively low position back in Ghana and working his way up the org chart. The dad had traveled widely, and my driver had consequently become interested in the world beyond West Africa. The driver’s older brother had emigrated to Canada and encouraged him to do likewise. Eventually, my driver migrated south to New York.

I had a million questions I wanted to ask this interesting fellow, but as is always the case with such short encounters, the destination arrived well short of the questions being asked and answered. I had to be satisfied with a brief exchange confirming what I discover continually: for all the ignorance and craziness that prevails in this country, some very smart, good, unheralded people are walking—and driving—through the fray.

After clearing security and reading a fair amount at the gate, I was aboard the aircraft bound for Minneapolis. Fortunately, it proved to be a good “reading flight”—over two hours’ worth. The only major turbulence I experienced was aboard the airport taxi home. Eight inches of snow had fallen in the Twin Cities, and as has been the case since I was in law school nearly a half century ago, the city of St. Paul—through which we must travel between the airport and home—plows only emergency routes. Motorists are left to fend for themselves on the rest of the streets. Given the sleet that had turned to ice under the unplowed moisture-laden snow, our route through St. Paul threatened to shake all my teeth loose.

The driver took it in stride. The slow pace gave me ample opportunity to quiz him. As it turned out, he was from Togo, the former French colony next door to Ghana. His radio was tuned to MPR, and during our extended political conversation, I was impressed by how well informed this driver was. I was not surprised when he expressed a strong dislike for the current presidents—both the one who was on the ballot and the one who wasn’t.

I noticed a six-inch scar arcing over the driver’s right cheek. It appeared to be quite old and of a severity that surely should’ve been stitched but hadn’t been. I wanted to ask him when, where, and how—and why—but again, the destination appeared before the chance to ask any further questions. In any event, I’m not sure that I would have or should have asked what might have been a question too painful or personal to lodge. He’d come to the U.S. in 2000, and though I was vaguely aware of political turmoil in Togo throughout the 1990s, I didn’t know what violence might have been associated with it. I imagined that his scar was the sort that a sword or bayonet would make.

Though I’d ventured only to New York and Connecticut and back, upon reaching home I felt as if I’d traveled much farther distances—to . . . Texas (the Robert Caro exhibit at the New York Historical Society); Ukraine (the Ukrainian Institute); Vienna (Bruckner’s Seventh); Rostock (the Friedrich exhibit at the Met); Israel (the “Bring them home NOW!” demonstration in Central Park); and countries far and wide (all the many overseas tourists exploring Central Park).

After catching up with Beth, attending to some law work, then snow removal and errands, I ventured over to Little Switzerland for a light workout in the fading light of dusk—my 59^th ski day of the current season. The north wind didn’t bring the same chill that it had earlier this winter.

The groomer had been out laying a skating track in the fine blanket of snow left by the blizzard. I reveled in my good fortune: a safe and sound return from my modest but rewarding travels; fresh snow left by a March blizzard. At the summit of “The Eiger,” I stopped to admire the view of the moon overhead, a mere 238,900 miles away and Venus, just 29.56 million miles off in the western sky. Each is a close neighbor of ours in the grander scheme of things. I don’t need to fly to the moon or Venus—or Mars (140 million miles from Earth), for that matter. Those faraway orbs, beautiful in their places, are viewed best from the most beautiful globe of all—our home, Mother Earth.

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© 2025 by Eric Nilsson