Sleepless in New York

At some point I must have fallen asleep because it’s 4:45am and I’m awake—in silence—packing in the pre-dawn darkness.

At 5:30am, the deli across the street is just opening, its chain drape half-raised over the deli’s front windows like the lid of a sleepy eye. Fresh fruit sits in bowls on the counter and businessmen are waiting inside for coffee.

The doorman hails my taxi, and I genuinely mourn the fact that I cannot spend this early morning eating an egg sandwich at Isadora’s Café, or watching the garbage trucks collect the bags left out on the curb.

I’m sniffling inside the taxi, and my driver hands me tissues. I sneeze and he blesses me. Everyone is friendly and it occurs to me that this is the politeness that comes with the sharing of close city quarters. We like to think of ourselves as so polite in the Midwest, but I think this must be the truest test: how one sustains politeness in the absence of real estate elbow room.

My driver takes a call on his speaker phone—a sleepy woman wishing him a good day. I really hope she doesn’t start talking dirty or anything, and remain awkwardly silent in the back seat.

“We’ve been together 12 years,” he says, afterward. “We’re not married. I was getting divorced when we met and I said to her, ‘if you want to get married, find another guy.’ And now here we are, 12 years and two children later.” Apparently it’s worked out for them. I even think his story is a bit romantic.

He’s a Greek man, and tells me that his family came from Greece and lives in Queens, where apparently the largest Greek population is. We chat and I tell him about traveling through Thesseloniki. As we arrive at the airport he gives me his number and tells me to call him next time he’s in town for coffee.

What is it with taxi drivers these days?