07:30, stuck in Beiruti traffic in Ghobeyri, just saw my beloved off at the airport, no coffee in my system.
Taxi Driver. Buoyant Mood. Virgin Mary stuck next to the wheel, Mar Youssef on the rearview mirror, rosaries dangling from everywhere. Puts French songs at maximum volume, yells to cover aformentionned song, you know, to talk to me. (I’m just praying: Please God, let him stop talking, let him stop talking NOW)
Radio: Je suis une femme amoureueueueueueusseee
Taxi Driver: Do you know, I love my children.
Polite Me: Allah ykhallyon. May God protect them.
Real Me: Minimum ya3ni you love your children. Now please, please shut up.
Taxi Driver: I have three you know. They’re 5, 3 and 1 and a half. My two eldest don’t really care about me, but the last one, she dances on tables and is so happy to see me when I come back home.
Polite Me: Ya habibi, she must be so cute.
Real Me: Perhaps the eldest two have developped acute personality disorders just like me right now after being exposed to too much shitty French music.
Radio: Toute premiere fois, toutoute premiere fois toutoute premiere fois
Taxi Driver: You married?
Polite Me: Yes.
Real Me (Caffeine deprived. Taking toll on me): 1) My civil status is none of your business 2) I have four husbands and a wife, what’s it to you Nosy Boy?
Taxi Driver: You know, my wife, ya3ni, enno She brought me the kids so I can’t complain, I like her (true story, that’s what he said), but I’d die for my kids. Enno Mni7 enno jawazet.
Polite Me: Couldn’t bring self to be polite.
Real Me in Petto : Couldn’t bring self to answer. Might have said something along the lines of: oh but aren’t you a real gift to your wife, you, your stupid songs, your keresh and your distorted value system that sees nothing in your wife except a walking womb?
Radio: Et Partout dans la rue, j’veux qu’on parle de moi, que les filles soient nues qu’elles se jettent sur moi
Taxi Driver: Was that your husband we just dropped off?
Polite Me: Yes
Real Me: No no, I usually kiss random strangers on the mouth in front of the airport darak. Ah what the hell, let me kiss you since we’re here!
Taxi Driver: Are you pregnant? (I swear to God, he did ask me all of this. Oh how I wish he hadn’t. But he did)
Polite Me: No
Real Me: AAAAAAAAARRRRRRGGGGGGHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!! Give me a gun! Somebody give me a gun! Leave the Gun! Bare Hands are enough!! Walaw! Foot bi Tize kamen!!
Taxi Driver: May God give you a girl. Nothing better than a girl
Polite and Real Me: Mute with despair. What part of SHUT UP didn’t you understand?
Radio: Commeeeeeuuhhhh L’Oiseau
SO, to summarize:
What the Taxi Driver Told Me: Way too much
What I answered: Not Nearly Enough
State of Ulcer in Stomach from All I should Have Said But Did Not Say: In Progress
Impact of Taxi Driver on Caffeine Deprived Organism: Schizophrenia inducer
What to do next time: Walk.