If somebody honks a horn in Cleveland, they're saying 'Hi.' It's

Host: The highway shimmered under a dying midwestern sunset, long streaks of orange and violet stretching across the asphalt like brushstrokes of memory. The world smelled faintly of gasoline, grass, and the quiet dignity of small towns winding down for the night.

Inside an old pickup truck, the radio hummed softly — a local station playing jazz between weather updates and laughter. Jack drove with one hand on the wheel, the other resting on the open window, his fingers catching the cool Ohio air. Beside him sat Jeeny, sipping coffee from a travel mug, her eyes following the endless line of telephone poles flashing by.

Jeeny: “You drive slower here.”

Jack: “The road’s different.”

Jeeny: “Different how?”

Jack: “It’s got manners.”

Host: The truck rolled past a sign — Welcome to Cleveland — the kind of sign that didn’t shout, just smiled.

Jeeny: “You mean the people.”

Jack: “Yeah. The road’s just where you meet them.”

Host: She laughed softly, the sound blending with the hum of tires over pavement.

Jeeny: “You sound like you’ve gone native.”

Jack: “Maybe I have. You know what Mary Doria Russell said? ‘If somebody honks a horn in Cleveland, they're saying “Hi.” It's so rare to be honked at in anger. When we have merging traffic, we just interweave. There's real courtesy.’”

Jeeny: “She’s right. I noticed that too. Even the drivers here apologize with their eyes.”

Jack: “You think that’s what courtesy really is? Eye contact?”

Jeeny: “No. It’s acknowledgment. The quiet kind that says, ‘I see you, and I’ll make space.’”

Host: The evening deepened. Lights began to blink on across the horizon — distant farmhouses, gas stations, the glimmer of lives lived without hurry.

Jack: “You know, I used to think courtesy was weakness. Too soft for the world we live in.”

Jeeny: “And now?”

Jack: “Now I think it’s strength disguised as grace.”

Jeeny: “That’s Cleveland in a sentence.”

Host: The highway curved, and they passed a long line of cars merging into a single lane for construction. No horns, no chaos — just a seamless, wordless rhythm of give and take.

Jeeny: “Look at that. Not a single person cutting ahead.”

Jack: “It’s like an unspoken agreement: we’re all getting there, just breathe.”

Jeeny: “You’d never see that in New York.”

Jack: “Or L.A.”

Jeeny: “Or anywhere that forgot patience.”

Host: The jazz on the radio faded into the soft static of an AM talk show, where an old voice spoke about the weather and the Cleveland Browns. It was the kind of sound that made the world feel smaller — intimate, forgiving.

Jack: “You know, people underestimate courtesy. They think it’s small. But maybe it’s the foundation of civilization.”

Jeeny: “It’s the art of restraint. The belief that kindness isn’t wasted.”

Jack: “And maybe that’s what keeps a city human.”

Host: The truck slowed at a red light. A car pulled up beside them — an old woman behind the wheel, waving at them with the kind of warmth that made strangers feel like family. Jack waved back. The light turned green, and both cars rolled forward in quiet harmony.

Jeeny: “See? She didn’t even know us.”

Jack: “Doesn’t matter. Courtesy doesn’t need recognition — just intention.”

Jeeny: “You really love it here, don’t you?”

Jack: “Yeah. Cleveland’s like… proof that the world doesn’t have to be cruel to work.”

Jeeny: “You think that’s why Russell wrote that? To remind us that decency still exists in the little things?”

Jack: “Maybe. Maybe she wanted us to remember that progress doesn’t mean losing grace.”

Host: The sun finally disappeared behind the horizon, leaving only the afterglow — a deep, bruised orange fading into navy. The headlights cut through the darkness, steady and sure.

Jeeny: “You know, it’s easy to make the world hard. Courtesy takes effort. It’s choosing empathy over ego.”

Jack: “Exactly. Anyone can honk in anger. It takes heart to honk in greeting.”

Jeeny: “Or to slow down for someone else’s lane.”

Jack: “That’s the thing about Cleveland — it doesn’t compete. It cooperates.”

Jeeny: “And cooperation’s what keeps the world from spinning off its axis.”

Host: The road stretched ahead — smooth, simple, endless. A few raindrops began to fall, light as whispers, tapping softly on the windshield.

Jack: “You ever think small courtesies are just another form of love?”

Jeeny: “Absolutely. The quiet kind — the one that doesn’t need to be declared.”

Jack: “Like a driver waving you in on a crowded lane?”

Jeeny: “Exactly. A silent, human ‘go ahead.’”

Host: They drove in silence for a while, the sound of the rain mingling with the hum of the tires, a lullaby for travelers who understood that gentleness was not weakness but endurance.

Jeeny: “You know, maybe courtesy is the only real antidote to chaos.”

Jack: “And maybe that’s why it feels so rare. It’s rebellion in slow motion.”

Jeeny: “A kindness revolution.”

Jack: “Led by Cleveland.”

Jeeny: (smiling) “By people who still wave when they drive.”

Host: The truck turned off the highway and into the quiet streets of a neighborhood strung with porch lights and laughter. The world felt smaller here — not shrunken, but closer, as if every house knew the same heartbeat.

Jack parked by the curb and turned off the engine.

Jack: “You know, I think she was right. Courtesy isn’t just civility — it’s connection.”

Jeeny: “And connection is the closest thing we have to peace.”

Host: The rain had stopped. A faint smell of wet earth drifted through the air. Somewhere, a wind chime sang softly.

And in that stillness, Mary Doria Russell’s words glowed quietly between them — simple, human, and true:

“If somebody honks a horn in Cleveland, they're saying ‘Hi.’ It's so rare to be honked at in anger. When we have merging traffic, we just interweave. There's real courtesy.”

Because kindness doesn’t need headlines —
it needs habit.

Courtesy is not weakness;
it’s the courage to stay gentle in a world that’s forgotten how.

And maybe, in the smallest acts —
a wave, a honk, a shared lane —
humanity finds its truest form:
a quiet, unspoken promise
that we can still live
together.