Tuesday Morning Conversation with a Beirut Taxi Driver. As I get into the beige Nissan Sunny through the creaky passenger door, Fairuz sings over the crackle of an FM station. Assorted religious trinkets adorn the dashboard, presumably to safeguard against the drivers very apparent hangover slash continued inebriation at 8am. According to the semi-official gold plaque on the glovebox, his name is Charbel. He asks: - London? Paris? - Excuse me? - Where do you live? - Why do you ask? I mean, kind of between here and there I guess. At this point I rack my brain trying to figure out if Im wearing something odd, or if I inadvertently got in and spoke in French or English - but Im sure I didnt because Ive been aware since I first moved to Lebanon as a teen that that makes me a dick. He smiles and hits the accelerator. - But seriously, why do you ask. - You put your seat belt on. If you put your seat belt on, you either live in London or Paris. - Ah. Right. - Dont feel bad about it. Its nice you know. Organisation, and laws and safety. Good for you. At this point he makes a sharp left and tears the wrong way up a one-way street. Fairuz continues to crackle over the airwaves.
Posted on: Tue, 30 Dec 2014 09:47:36 +0000