Five Hours Down, Five To Go
Charlie and Oliver were brothers, and one encouraged the other to pay attention to the "little people" he encountered, like cab drivers. Charlie and Oliver are characters in a Brad Meltzer book, but I still think it was good advice.
I would say that 75% of the cab drivers I encounter in San Francisco are regular people, who just happen to have a hard job. Generally I try to talk with cab drivers - I consider it an opportunity to practice small talk, which I'm not good at. So yes, I use cab drivers.
Earlier this week I felt myself coming down with a cold, and by the time I woke up this morning my throat felt like someone had sand-papered it. Breathing is difficult. The sinus pressure in my face is painful. My brother and his fiance had invited me to their house for Thanksgiving, and I wanted to go. So this morning I made two pies without breathing on them and in the afternoon I mascara-ed up to haul myself deeper into the city for Thanksgiving dinner.
While at my brother's house, his fiance found some cold medicine I could take. Although I had to continuously excuse myself from whoever I was talking to in order to find tissues (Golden Boy, sorry I used up all your tissues), tonight was fun.
I met some very cool people, tried some new foods, and aside from the Cold From Hell, had a good time. When it was time to head home, I knew I was going to get a taxi - waiting for the buses was going to take too long, and my bed was calling for me. My brother and his out-of-town friend walked me to a major intersection, and in less than five minutes I was able to hail a cab.
$1,883. That's how much it will cost my cab driver to get a plane ticket to Nigeria, he told me. He then talked about money for the next half a dozen blocks we drove down on Market Street. I felt like he was trying to butter me up for a big tip. I round up, but not that far up. I asked if he was at the beginning or the end of his shift, and that's when he told me. He'd been working for the last five hours, and he had five more hours to drive around the city. Ten hours on Thanksgiving. You could make the argument that since he's not American, why would he want to celebrate Thanksgiving, but are you really that cold?
He's lived in San Francisco for ten years, and is 47. His fiance is 21 and he wants to bring her to America from Nigeria. He asked if I would like to see a picture. Sure. Okay, he told me, after he has my confidence. Huh what, now? Yes, that's what he said. And that's when I mentally moved him out of the 75% of regular cab drivers.
"Are you married," he asked me. I told him no. My throat hurt when I spoke and I had no more small talk left in me. "Do you want to be?" he inquired. Asking someone whether or not they want to be married is a pretty heavy question for a cab ride.
"If it happens, great, if it doesn't, that's okay too," I told him. Right then is when I think he stopped liking me, because he started humming and didn't speak to me again until he arrived at my apartment.
I wonder about Nigeria, and what the social customs are there related to marriage. I wonder if the 21 year old woman in Nigeria knows what's waiting for her if she marries this much older man and comes to America. Is there some little Nigerian community in the Bay Area, like there's Little Havana in Miami, or will she be terribly homesick while her husband works long hours for little money? I wonder if the Bay Area is the part of America she wants to come to. I wish I knew more.
I rounded up. Happy Thanksgiving.
I would say that 75% of the cab drivers I encounter in San Francisco are regular people, who just happen to have a hard job. Generally I try to talk with cab drivers - I consider it an opportunity to practice small talk, which I'm not good at. So yes, I use cab drivers.
Earlier this week I felt myself coming down with a cold, and by the time I woke up this morning my throat felt like someone had sand-papered it. Breathing is difficult. The sinus pressure in my face is painful. My brother and his fiance had invited me to their house for Thanksgiving, and I wanted to go. So this morning I made two pies without breathing on them and in the afternoon I mascara-ed up to haul myself deeper into the city for Thanksgiving dinner.
While at my brother's house, his fiance found some cold medicine I could take. Although I had to continuously excuse myself from whoever I was talking to in order to find tissues (Golden Boy, sorry I used up all your tissues), tonight was fun.
I met some very cool people, tried some new foods, and aside from the Cold From Hell, had a good time. When it was time to head home, I knew I was going to get a taxi - waiting for the buses was going to take too long, and my bed was calling for me. My brother and his out-of-town friend walked me to a major intersection, and in less than five minutes I was able to hail a cab.
$1,883. That's how much it will cost my cab driver to get a plane ticket to Nigeria, he told me. He then talked about money for the next half a dozen blocks we drove down on Market Street. I felt like he was trying to butter me up for a big tip. I round up, but not that far up. I asked if he was at the beginning or the end of his shift, and that's when he told me. He'd been working for the last five hours, and he had five more hours to drive around the city. Ten hours on Thanksgiving. You could make the argument that since he's not American, why would he want to celebrate Thanksgiving, but are you really that cold?
He's lived in San Francisco for ten years, and is 47. His fiance is 21 and he wants to bring her to America from Nigeria. He asked if I would like to see a picture. Sure. Okay, he told me, after he has my confidence. Huh what, now? Yes, that's what he said. And that's when I mentally moved him out of the 75% of regular cab drivers.
"Are you married," he asked me. I told him no. My throat hurt when I spoke and I had no more small talk left in me. "Do you want to be?" he inquired. Asking someone whether or not they want to be married is a pretty heavy question for a cab ride.
"If it happens, great, if it doesn't, that's okay too," I told him. Right then is when I think he stopped liking me, because he started humming and didn't speak to me again until he arrived at my apartment.
I wonder about Nigeria, and what the social customs are there related to marriage. I wonder if the 21 year old woman in Nigeria knows what's waiting for her if she marries this much older man and comes to America. Is there some little Nigerian community in the Bay Area, like there's Little Havana in Miami, or will she be terribly homesick while her husband works long hours for little money? I wonder if the Bay Area is the part of America she wants to come to. I wish I knew more.
I rounded up. Happy Thanksgiving.
Labels: Anti-Foodie, Playing in SF
posted by Green at 11/22/2007 09:26:00 PM
1 Comments:
Hope you're feeling better. My better half started off with allergies/asthma about 8 weeks ago. She's had laryngitis for the last 4.5 wks. Third round of antibiotics for what is (or was) officially pneumonia. She's feeling better, but still no voice. (Although most mornings she can manage a Debra Winger imitation. Last night a friend suggested she work in the phone sex industry)
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