My Late-Night Adventure to the Port of Buffalo

Creating Uncommon Togetherness in the Most Unexpected Moment:

It was late on a Saturday night in 1973—2:00 AM on a quiet, cold morning in downtown Buffalo, New York. I had just finished my shift on the Suicide Prevention Hotline, feeling the reward of connecting with people who were bravely exploring whether their life was worth continuing.

As I exited the building, two small men approached me, each carrying a huge trash bag slung over their backs.

“Ma’am, we are so sorry to interrupt you, but we have some questions.”

Their English was precise, polite, and carried a distinct British-Indian accent. Naturally cautious, I asked what was in their bags. They explained the bags held clothes and toys from Salvation Army stores, brought for their families back in Mumbai, India. I asked to see for myself. They opened the bags, and I believed them.

Then they told me their dilemma:

“We cannot find any buses to take us back to the Port of Buffalo. Our ship departs at 6:00 AM. If we miss it, we will be stuck here illegally.”

They had collected gifts for loved ones and now risked missing their steel freighter back home. There were no buses at that hour. They needed a ride—and they needed it from a stranger.

Taking a Risk:

I asked a few careful questions:

• Did they know the way to their ship?

• How far was it?

• Why was the ship here?

They answered with calm clarity: they’d come to pick up steel from the Bethlehem Steel plant in Lackawanna, and it would take about 30 minutes to drive back. I offered them a deal:

“I’ll give you a ride—if you give me a tour of your ship.”

Tea, Biscuits, and Clove Cigarettes:

We all squeezed into my 1969 VW Bug, bags and all. They guided me through the streets of Buffalo in the dark. When we arrived, we walked up the gangplank and onto their ship. They proudly showed me around and invited me to their galley—the ship’s kitchen—where they brewed hot tea, offered biscuits (cookies), and even shared clove cigarettes, which I’d never encountered before.

We talked about life in America and India. They were curious:

“Are the people we met in the bars downtown typical American families?”

I responded with a question of my own:

“If I visited Mumbai, where would I find typical Indian families? In bars and restaurants—or at home?”

They smiled and answered their own question.
We were more alike than different.

A Moment of Global Connection:

When it was time to leave, I wished them a safe trip across the Atlantic. I knew they would share this story—and my small kindness—with their families, halfway around the world. I went home, my heart full.

I had taken a risk—one many of my friends might have warned against—and it turned into a beautiful moment of Uncommon Togetherness. Not only did they make their ship, but I also gained something far deeper: a connection that made me feel like a citizen of the world.

That night, I slept peacefully—knowing I had done the right thing.

Let’s be curious together.
Let’s imagine a world where uncommon togetherness is not just possible, but real.