I tried to Google Map directions from the bus terminal to the HoJo, but I couldn’t connect with the internet in the terminal, though the sign says you can. I went out just as a taxi pulled in. I put my bag in the trunk and asked for the HoJo on New York Avenue. “It’s a mile away,” I said, to discourage a roundabout route. The driver had beautiful copper skin and a soft, far-east accent. He set the meter at $3 and off we zoomed.
The silence between us felt like no fun to me, so I said, “Where are you from?”
“The Planet Earth,” he said.
“Me, too,” I said when I stopped laughing from surprise.
“How long have you lived in this particular part of Planet Earth?” I asked.
“I’ve lived in this particular part for – I don’t know how long, because the planet keeps spinning and I’ve lost track.”
So he defied my efforts to categorize and define him.
He got my bag out of the trunk, charged me $4.75 for the fare and $2.00 for the bag. But he made me laugh so I gave him a tip on top of the questionable bag fee.
“Everybody on the planet living in peace and love,” he said as I stepped out of the cab.
“That would be nice,” I agreed, and I went to check in.
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