My brother and I got off the train in Turino, Italy, in the heat of mid-June, backpacks bulging and heavy. The white-capped Alps that cross into France and Switzerland towered in the distance. Today, they seemed oppressive. Already we’d come up the coast of Italy, passing glimpses of the Mediterranean. But we still had to get to the other side of those mountains.

“Do you see a small green car?” I asked Evan, looking around the train platform. It was the only information I had on our rideshare driver, a man named Ettore. He was to take us on the last leg of our trip, to a small city in France called Grenoble.

A man in a green car pulled up then, noticed us, and waved. Another Italian also saw and moved towards us, and we exchanged shy introductions as we dumped luggage into the trunk. Ettore greeted us with articulate English and only a slight accent. All together, we were a car of five. My brother, myself, and three strangers. We packed in and prepared ourselves for the 3-hour drive through the mountains.

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This was not my first rideshare. At the time, I was living in the Alpine city of Albertville, France, and I traveled nearly every other week. Every traveler I’d come across recommended ridesharing. I quickly learned why — more often than not, it was the most affordable and efficient way to get places. My go-to site was BlaBlaCar; whenever I planned a trip, I scoured the site for different rideshares. It was never hard to find a driver going where I needed to go.

But the efficiency and the price wasn’t why ridesharing experiences lingered with me.

Instead, it was people like Ettore.

As we headed towards those towering peaks ahead, he told us his story. We learned his son was a professional chess player. Ettore drove him back and forth from Italy into France for competitions.

“He’s one of the top players in Europe,” he said. “At first, I thought it was silly. But now, I’m very proud of him.”

Ettore was older, with sophisticated glasses, a grey sweater, and silver streaks in a full head of hair. He told us stories of his travels in France, visiting New York, and how he hopes to visit the States again.

The other Italians, from Naples and Sicily, shared their stories as well. One was studying in France and was returning from spending a weekend with his boyfriend. The other had a French girlfriend and was coming to visit her. He hadn’t seen her for six weeks.

“We met in school,” he said, with that lilting accent of the Italians. “We didn’t think we could make this work. But we’re making it work.”

Then there was my brother and I, two Americans headed back to France, and then home to Los Angeles.

Our stories exchanged, we settled into talking about life, travels, and favorite Italian dishes. They practiced their English with us. We laughed together in the close confines of the 5-seater, as we cut through the mountains and watched the sky melt before us.

It was one of the most beautiful drives of my life.

Not just because of the spectacular landscapes outside the window. It was because, for those brief hours, we were friends. Unlikely strangers, united by a common journey.