I picked him up at Westminster College and started driving toward the Avenues. He told me he’d only lived in Utah for a few months and that he’d just moved to the United States two years ago.

I asked him what he thought of our state.

He said, “I like everything but the cult.”

I assumed he meant Mormonism because … Utah. We’re known for Mormonism. And people outside the state (and heck, inside the state) have their ideas and opinions. I responded, “I understand you might feel that way, and it seems like it’s everywhere, but there are ways to avoid running into it. Plenty of pockets closer to Salt Lake City where you don’t even notice it at all. Like the Avenues, for instance.”

I looked in my rearview mirror to make eye contact. He gave me a confused look.

“You know, the Avenues, where I’m taking you.” I stumbled over my words and wondered why I was even trying to explain the religious geographical intricacies of our great city. (Try repeating that out loud three times.) “I’m just saying there are certain pockets in Salt Lake where you don’t even notice it. The Avenues is one of them.”

He tilted his head and furrowed his brow.

“Certain neighborhoods aren’t cold?”

Realization dawned. I had made a terrible mistake.

“Oh…. the cold. You like everything but the cold. OK, yeah, that’s unavoidable. Even in the Avenues.”

It’s at times like this that I turn up the radio and pretend to be fascinated by my navigation system, because oh look, we’re turning left now, notice the shiny blinker(!) so you’ll forget I sound like a crazy person.

When we arrived at his destination, he got out and pulled his jacket tighter around him, as if to drive home the fact that yes, the Avenues were as cold as the rest of the city.

Not every embarrassing encounter is my fault. Some are technical glitches.

One day I picked up two Latina women. After driving across town, my navigation directed me down a winding road devoid of businesses or homes or, really, any signs of life. The women looked confused and, frankly, a little scared. Speaking very little English, they did what they could to show their alarm. One of them held up a bucket full of house cleaning supplies, pointing out in a universal language the absurdity of getting dropped off to do some house cleaning on a street with no houses.

Those poor women are probably still there now, so if you see them, please give them a ride.

I always wonder if these miscommunications affect my star ratings. Star ratings are important to Uber drivers, especially if your Uber driver is like me and she still has all of her participation trophies from Bonnet Ball.

I remember the day my perfect 5-star rating streak ended with an anonymous 1-star dagger to the heart. My husband was indignant. Who could have possibly given his sweet wife one star. She gives free bottles of water! She has tissues and phone chargers at the ready! She vacuums! (A feat that blows his mind every day.)

But there are always going to be those times when my navigation system glitches and I accidentally take people to Children-of-the-Corn Alley, or I spend several minutes explaining to a rider that as long as he sticks to certain less-Mormon neighborhoods, he can avoid the cold.

Brodi Ashton is a New York Times best-selling author who lives in the Salt Lake City area. She’s also an Uber and Lyft driver who shares stories from the road in this occasional column.

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