Without a trace of self-consciousness he said, “I am from Iraq,” but the declaration seemed brave to me anyway, as blue as the state through which we drove is.

Unless someone’s waiting for you in the terminal, I consider it a ridiculous sign of addiction (or posing) to turn on your cellphone or Blackberry and call someone while the plane’s still taxiing in from the runway — rude, even, if you’re too self-absorbed to have set your device to vibrate when following the flight attendant’s reminder to turn it off before the plane took off, the cabin thus chirping with all these little pacifiers ringing back to life, each in their “declaration of unique individuality” mass-produced ringtones*. So I was still engaged with checking my own messages curbside when it came my turn to climb into the next waiting taxi and head into Dallas from DFW, my driver assigned to me by chance.

He made some chitchat before noticing I was bidactily absorbed in composing emails, so he gave me some space before resuming his gregarious interrogative about where I was from, what brought me to Dallas, had I ever been here before, etc. It seemed only friendly to respond in kind, hence this sudden knowledge of his ancestry.

I allowed as how he must find it difficult to live in the very state from which our Commander in Chief chooses to currently hail — he who invaded his homeland on a pretext, casting it into deadly chaos. But my cabbie (I didn’t get his name clearly at the time and don’t now remember what I thought his name was – no matter), was more philosophical than that. He knew the common man’s fate is largely chosen for him by others and with nary a hint of aggression, he wondered how it was for me to have George represent me. I assured him I didn’t feel that W in fact DID, and we spent the next while discussing American politics — how we come by the people from whom we get to choose the next POTUS, what it’s like for Americans abroad to be considered representative of America and answerable to the follies and crimes of our leadership, how it is that we vote against people we don’t want in office as much or more than we vote FOR someone, how only the rich or their designates will ever be POTUS, and some of my vague understandings of the historical reasons why we’re a representative federalism more than a true democracy, even though technology now allows the latter.

We also talked about family and patriotism and living abroad, I having grown up in Venezuela an American, he now having been here 15 years but with family in Iraq to whom he sends money. Bonds of family, torn allegiances, prejudice, finding belonging. The miles from DFW to the architects’ offices fairly flew.

And then we were there. We both got out, and he helped me with my bags then gave me his card – generic, just the name of the cab company, not his own. He thanked me for our conversation and my insights into this country, that he had much to think on, and he said he’d love to drive me back at the end of my trip if that worked for me. I told him genuinely that I had enjoyed our conversation, wished him luck, and then summoned the only Arabic I know, torn between presumption and respect.
“Salaam aleikhum,” I wished him, hands clasped before me, hoping that was all at least close to appropriate, and with a broad smile, hands clasped before him in a small bow, he wished me the same. And I wheeled my bag inside the sprawling modernist building, feeling more like I’d just arrived from an international trip than a cab ride, and thinking this must be a little like what it must feel like to travel as Michael.

* I only ever heard one ringtone I thought was truly original – a landscape architect had recorded the night chirpings of crickets and had used that as his own.