Yesterday I went to Boston for the day, a treat to celebrate the Memorial Day holiday here in America.
The day was enjoyable, but this exchange particularly amused me.
Walking down the street, headed to Chinatown for lunch, I spotted a taxi sitting at the curb and thought I'd ask him if there was an Ethiopian restaurant in town. 99% chances are the taxi driver is from Africa, or will at least know where Africans hang out. I bent down to look into the passenger side window and asked.
"Why you want to know?" he demanded fiercely.
Wondering if he was upset at the idea of a white person wanting to eat at an African restaurant, I replied, "I like Ethiopian food. I was just wondering if there was one in town."
"OK." And gesturing widely, he began to describe rapid-fire the path I would have to take, pointing out a building where I would have to turn left. "The 24/7 Diner. They're open all the time." He smiled, as if this was some kind of joke.
"OK, thank you," I said, prepared to leave.
"What's your name?" he demanded.
I told him.
"How old are you?"
"Twenty-six."
"Are you married?" "No." "Do you have a boyfriend?" Shaking my head amusedly, knowing where this was going.
"Can I have your phone number?"
"No, I don't think so," I responded with a big smile.
"Why not? I was watching you walking down the street, I noticed you. You are the kind of woman I like. You're beautiful," he effused, throwing his head back pleadingly.
"Well, thank you," I replied, for what else can you say?
"So can I have your number?"
"No, no," I responded, in good humour. "I'm sure you're a very nice man," I added hastily.
This hit home. He swelled up and looked around importantly. "Never you said a truer word!" he exclaimed, thumping his chest. "I am a good man! And I'm a journalist!" he added proudly, as if being a mere taxi driver was not enough to win my heart, his other qualifications might. "I give you my card!"
"What's your name?" I asked.
"Just a minute! I give you my card and you will see!" He fumbled in his leather day planner and eventually pulled out a white business card which he handed to me. "Jean," I read.
"Oui."
"Where are you from, Jean?"
"Haiti."
"Oh, I know some people from Haiti..." and we rapped about the people I knew, and a man he knew who had the same last name as one of my friends.
"Now, can I have your phone number?" he demanded, in a tone not to be refused, as he reached for a pen.
"No, no, no," I laughed, preparing to walk away. "I have your card," and I waved it at him.
"How do I know you will call me?" A tone of desperation.
"Well..." and I shook the inquiry off. "Merci, Jean. Merci beaucoup," and I set off to walk again down the street.
It made me laugh. And believe it or not, it brightened my day. Because even if he was a taxi driver who looked almost old enough to be my father, it's still nice to be appreciated. It reminded me that this used to happen all the time when I lived in Toronto. I love the directness of men from other cultures. They don't beat around the bush when they're interested in a woman.