Waymo: The Best Ride You’ll Ever Take
My definition of “making it” in NYC? The moment I could stop walking everywhere, ditch the subway, and start taking taxis.
There’s nothing quite like stumbling out of a club at 4 AM, realizing your half-tank, mini skirt, and heels were not built for subway stairs, empty platforms, and those endless connector tunnels. Or worse—having to walk 50 blocks at dawn, freezing in the morning cold, clutching just enough money for a bagel (why was this my only option? Another story for another day). A true rite of passage.
Then came money. And with it, taxis. The joy of pouring myself into a cab, closing my eyes, and waking up at my doorstep—wallet and phone lost to the “drunk girl taxi tax” but worth every cent.
As my income grew, so did my cab habit:
Post-club cabs turned into post-dinner cabs (too full to walk).
Post-dinner cabs turned into work cabs (sure, the traffic is bad, but I can answer emails).
Work cabs turned into my preferred mode of transportation for literally everything.
And because I basically lived in taxis, I learned the hustle. Most drivers didn’t even own their cabs - they rented them from medallion holders (those coveted metal plates costing $300K+). Some families went all in, working brutal shifts just to stay afloat. I rode with guys pulling 18-hour days (and smelling like it), crammed into tiny apartments with 10 roommates, sending every extra dollar home. Every ride was a live episode of This Driver’s Life.
Some drove like maniacs, weaving through traffic at breakneck speed to maximize fares. Others crawled through the streets, milking the meter for every last dime. I hated both but eventually accepted it as part of the taxi-taking life.
Then Uber crashed the party. Game-changing convenience, brutal consequences. Yellow cabs got squeezed out, medallions became financial dead weight, and an entire economy shifted overnight. We adjusted. And now?
Waymo is here.
A self-driving car designed in partnership with Jaguar Land Rover that smells fresh, doesn’t argue about directions, and doesn’t give off mildly threatening energy when you pay with a card? The dream.
Like Uber, you call Waymo from an app. The difference? Your initials flash on the car. No more awkward “Is this my ride?” moments.
Inside? Spotless. Smells like nothing (a luxury). A soothing robot voice gives you the rules. If you sit up front, you get a surreal front-row seat to a ghost driver’s chair and a wheel that moves on its own. Sit in back? Touchscreen control for music.
The car won’t move until everyone’s buckled. It honks if someone cuts it off. It politely navigates traffic. Need to stop somewhere? Tap the touchscreen or the app. If you need help? There’s a call button. When you get out, the voice reminds you to grab your stuff - preventing drunk girl taxi tax before it happens.
I took seven Waymo rides in San Francisco. By the last one, I was Googling Waymo jobs. NYC needs Waymo. The world needs Waymo.
I want a Waymo subscription that picks me up and drops me off daily, door to door, to and from work. I want Waymo to grab my kids when I’m stuck in meetings. This isn’t just a ride it’s a lifestyle.
I’m in. Take my money.
