Low on the list of preferred Sunday morning topics:

I changed apartments this past weekend (from west to east London, not that you were interested). Out of necessity, I called a car to help me move the ridiculous amount of shit I own for someone essentially living out of a suitcase. An extremely pleasant gentlemen helped me load my luggage and quickly headed us across town. I was, however, forced to sit in the front seat since the cab was completely full. Normally, I don't prefer to do this. You'll see why after I explain what transpired.

Attempting to break the ice with both of us crowded in the front seat, mister driver decided to strike up a conversation. It went something not unlike this:

"So, my friend, you are not from the UK. Where are you from?"

"Uh... I'm from America. I used to live in Texas."

"Ahhh, Texas. I know Texas. George Bush!" [note: this is always the response, it never fails]

(quickly) "Yeah, yeah ... I know. Not all Texans like George Bush though. And he's not technically from there. I mean, he wasn't born there."

(incredulous) "He is not Texan?"

"Well, it's, uh ... well yeah, he's Texan. Pretty much. But you know, people don't really like him any more. He's on his way out of office."

(uncomfortable pause)

(trying to be polite) "So, where are you from?"

"Afghanistan."

Shit. Awkward.

(stammering) "Oh, well, er- of course you are..."

(really long uncomfortable pause)

"I'm from the anti-American part." (oh, Jesus) "Well, not anti-American, just anti-Bush." (whew)

"Well I don't blame people for not liking the guy who bombed your country."

(really, really awkward pause. In fact, I probably could have done well keeping that last bit to myself)

"But ... umm ... I mean, we're just starting the process for getting a new president. So he'll be gone soon."

"Do you think Hillary Clinton will win?"

I have to admit, I was a bit surprised. I wouldn't assume that an Afghan cab driver in London would be clued in on the upcoming presidential race, much less know who the frontrunner is. We went on to have a short conversation on politics and the campaign that would probably rival any one might have with the average American. For a brief moment, everything was less strained.

He talked about his kids. One is seven and one is ten. He could have brought them to live in the UK sooner, but he wanted them to grow up in Afghanistan so they would remember their culture and where they came from. That struck me as particularly important. In just a few sentences I got a picture of how serious culture and national identity are where he's from.

We were soon at our destination, fortunately, and my thoughts quickly turned towards getting the hell out of the car.

"So, thanks a lot for everything. I think I was quoted £23 on the telepho...."

"Yes, but you had many bags."

(quickly) "I don't mind giving you £30."

"That is fine. Are you happy my friend?"

(no) "Yeah, I'm happy. Take it easy."

"Goodbye my friend."

Like that, he was off. It was good to meet you mister Afghan taxi driver, wherever you are.

Realization: Apologizing for your president sucks.
Lesson: Don't sit in the front seat of a cab. Ever.