cab ride home

Was getting used to taking cabs in New York, except for the last one that took us to the airport. He apparently sensed that these tourists hadn't gotten the quintessential NYC cab ride, so he obliged. Doesn't help when you hadn't slept at all and had had several glasses of champagne and other alcohol only a handful of hours before. We both tried to "sleep" rather than watch the world spin by in jerky stop and start movements.

After drinks at Cafe Van Kleef (Mexican beer with shot of Tequilla special) and a very stuffed dinner with Barbara Jane at Anita's Mexican Restaurant (how could you not have Mexican on Cinco de Mayo?), I take BART to MacArthur, then decide to take a cab home rather than wait at the bus stop with the wind chill going up my skirt.

It's no more than a 10 minute drive to my place. The driver is Asian Indian, more specifically Punjabi, as he wore a purple turban. He asks me as we turn the corner, where I am from because I have no accent. I tell him I was born and raised in Oakland, but my parents are from the Philippines.

Kumusta ka?

"Mabuti", I reply. He had gone to the Philippines several times: Manila, Ilo-ilo, Cebu, Batangas. He's gone to more islands than I've ever seen. He asks if I speak Tagalog. I answer that I learned in school but my parents speak another Filipino language. He's been in the US for 45 years.

When I went to the Philippines with my family one year, a friend of my sister joined us. She was Punjabi from the central valley. Filipinos referred to her as Bombay (bohm-bye). As Filipinos leave the Philippines to seek opportunity, I suppose that there are others who come to the Philippines for just the same reason.

I chat with the cab driver some more. He asks what I do for a living.

He drops me off, I pay him the fare with tip. He says, "Salamat!." He waits for me to get my keys and enter the building. Nice guy.

When I get to my living room, I realize I've left my cell phone in his cab. I call it, hoping he picks up and hoping I didn't drop it someplace else. He answers. I think I left my cell phone in your cab.

"Is this the girl from the Philippines? Would you like me to drive it over?"

Yes. Thank you, yes!

I wait for him outside. He pulls up again. Tells me how his phone sounds exactly the same as my phone. Lucky that he heard it ringing, else his next fare might have found it and kept it. He asks me where I got my cell phone. I tell him from work.

He asks me if I'm married. I've learned not to read too much into this question when men ask it. Men seem to need to know the marital status of women whether or not they're interested, whether or not they themselves are seeing someone. I tell him I'm in a relationship with plans.

He shakes my hand through the cab window, "Well then, Mahal din kita!" I think to myself, "OK." But figure he's trying out as many Tagalog phrases he knows.

I hand him a few more dollars for his kindness and his trouble. I ask him what his name is and how to say thank you in his language. Rahki, danaba! He waves as he drives off.