Saint Teresa of San Francisco: A Tale of a Demon Driver and the Woman Whose Compassion Saved Us
Reading time: About 7 minutes.
Some people come into your life for a reason. Some to teach you lessons, some to test your patience, and a rare few to save you from the brink of disaster. During one chaotic night in San Francisco, I met two such people: a driver so recklessly hellish he might as well have been sent from the underworld, and a kind stranger who restored my faith in humanity with nothing more than Dramamine and a warm smile. This is the story of Saint Teresa of San Francisco—and the Demon Driver who made her necessary.
To fully appreciate their roles, you need to understand something about my husband, Mike. He inherited an impressive collection of traits from his parents. From his dad, he got a big, generous heart and the ability to spin even the dullest moment into a captivating story. From his mom, he got a razor-sharp intelligence and a knack for making everyone feel included. But with all those blessings came a less enviable gift: a sensitivity to motion. Put him in a car he’s not driving—especially one with warm, stagnant air—and he turns greener than a witch’s cauldron at full boil.
These days, I never leave home without motion-sickness medicine tucked in my purse, a talisman warding off evil spirits—or bad drivers. Which brings us back to that chaotic night I mentioned before.
The First Curse of the Demon Driver
In May of 2011, Mike and I visited San Francisco for a work conference. After a few days of indulging in food, sightseeing, and PowerPoint presentations, we were ready to head home. The hotel bellhop flagged us a cab, and up rolled our chariot: an aging champagne-colored Crown Victoria that looked like it had survived one exorcism too many.
Even at a standstill, the car seemed to lurch with a phantom momentum. We climbed in, and the vehicle groaned in protest. The driver—a wiry man with wispy blonde hair and a demeanor colder than a Siberian winter—chucked our luggage into the trunk like he was cursing its existence, then before we could buckle up, he bounded into the driver’s seat and put the pedal to the metal.
What followed was a masterclass in vehicular chaos. He drove like he had a personal vendetta against traffic laws: corners were taken at Mach speeds, stoplights were optional, and San Francisco’s hills became launchpads for his Evel Knievel ambitions. By the time we screeched to a halt at the airport, Mike’s face had turned an unholy shade of green. Somehow, he managed to stagger out of the car without losing his lunch. I watched as the Crown Vic sped away—probably back to the underworld—and silently prayed we’d never see that car or its driver again.
Return of the Demon Driver
Fast forward a few months, and Mike and I were back in San Francisco, trying to distract ourselves from the loss of our beloved dog, Parka. We threw ourselves into the city’s hidden treasures, including the California Academy of Sciences’ 21-and-over NightLife, where we had behind-the-scenes peeks at butterflies, venomous frogs, and Claude, the albino alligator. It was the perfect night—until it wasn’t.
When we stepped outside, ready to head back to the hotel, our hearts sank to see the last of the waiting taxis vanish into the night. A sense of foreboding crept in as we fumbled with our phones to summon a cab. Cell service went in and out like the buzzing lights in a horror flick, but we finally managed to get through, and I breathed a sigh of relief—until a champagne-colored vehicle rounded the corner like a demon escaping hell.
It was…familiar. Too familiar. My stomach dropped. How could it be? But it was. The Demon Driver had returned.
Reluctantly, we climbed into the backseat, bracing ourselves for what we knew was coming. The car groaned and sped away from the curb. The driver, true to form, attacked the streets with the enthusiasm of a man who had made a blood pact to break the laws of physics.
While Mike inherited a big heart and all the smarts from his parents, I inherited a decent sense of direction from my dad. Even though it was dark outside, I knew we were going the wrong way, and from the look of concentration in Mike’s eyes, I knew he wasn’t far from disaster. We were running out of time to get him back to the hotel. Detours were the last thing we needed.
“We’re staying at the Renaissance Stanford Court,” I said to the driver, raising my voice over the explosive road noise. “You need to turn right.”
The driver grunted and veered sharply down a dim street in the general direction of our hotel, but the damage was already done. Mike’s head bobbed helplessly with every bump, his face now a shade of full Grinch green. If we didn’t get him on solid ground—and fast—those grimy seats were about to gain a new texture and an unforgettable aroma that no pine-scented air freshener could mask. Even the demonic driver didn’t deserve that fate.
“Stop the car!” I yelled, banging on the back of the driver’s seat. “We need to get out!”
The driver skidded to a stop in the middle of a quiet residential street. I shoved a handful of cash at him, dragged Mike out, and slammed the door. The Demon Driver then sped away, no doubt eager to find his next victims.
And that’s how we ended up stranded, a mile from our hotel. The street was eerily quiet, lined with aging townhomes. Mike sank onto a stoop, his head between his knees. He looked less like a guy with motion sickness and more like someone who’d lost a fight with a bottle of tequila.
People passed us with quick glances and even quicker steps, crossing to the other side of the street. When I finally managed to flag down another cab, the driver took one look at Mike and refused to let us in. My begging and promises that he wouldn’t throw up did nothing to persuade the man. (And to be honest, I wasn’t sure if I could make good on those promises.)
I felt helpless—and something else, too: judgment. We were the “drunk man and crazy woman” I had avoided in the past. Now I understood how it felt to be dismissed, feared, and ignored simply because of how things looked on the surface.
Then, out of the shadows, a voice cut through the darkness.
“Do you need some help?”
I turned to see a woman with wavy blonde hair and a warm smile, radiating a light so pure she could have been an angel—or at least someone very well-lit by a nearby streetlamp.
“You look like you’re having a hard time,” she said.
I explained the situation in a rush, my words tumbling over themselves. “My husband’s motion sick. He’s not drunk, I promise!” I pointed down the street. “I just need to get to that convenience store for Dramamine, but I can’t leave him alone.”
She listened without a hint of judgment, then said, “Stay here. I’ll get it.” And just like that, she disappeared into the night.
Minutes later, she returned with a bag containing cold bottled water and Dramamine.
“Will this help?” she asked.
“Yes,” I said, my voice breaking. “Thank you.”
I tried to pay her, but she waved me away. Instead, she wished us well and turned to leave.
“Wait,” I called out. “What’s your name?”
“Teresa,” she said. “I hope he feels better.”
Then she was gone, leaving behind only her kindness—and a renewed faith in humanity.
With water and medication, Mike soon recovered enough to walk the rest of the way back to the hotel under the cold night sky.
To this day, I carry the lessons Teresa taught me that night (along with a bottle of meclizine in my purse). Her compassion and kindness turned a frightening, chaotic experience into something safe and bearable. In a moment when others turned away, she made me feel seen—not for how things looked, but for what was truly happening. She reminded me of the power of a simple act of kindness and taught me to be slower to judge and quicker to help.
To her friends and family, she’s probably just Teresa. But to me, she’ll always be Saint Teresa of San Francisco—the one who appeared out of the darkness and delivered us from the ravages of the Demon Driver.
PS: If you ever hail a cab in San Francisco and a champagne-colored Ford Crown Vic pulls up to give you a ride, run.
