In Vex

Gaddafi made this 'his' nation's flag back in '77. It has since been the world's only national flag composed of only one color and no insignia.

A transitional council was formed earlier this year, in wake of civil war, adopting this flag, which was previously used in Libyan history. It might not be widely accepted as the official current flag, but that's the downside of vexillology, no? Sadly it is the study of how everyone is divided.

Malawi's on nearly the opposite side of the African continent from Libya, with seemingly nothing in common, except that now their flags have identical colors, though distributed differently, and each flag boasts one of two heavenly bodies most influential upon our planet.

Holly Morris, the best presenter on adventure travel show 'Globe Trekker', was exploring neighboring Zambia on public television today. I love her 'pro-woman' approach to everything, the fact that she's down with hitch-hiking, and that one of her guests on that episode (or hosts rather) was a female mining truck operator. This on the same day many Saudi women call for nationwide action against it being illegal for non-males to obtain a driver license.

This drunk Texan motorist, who drove his Ford Grand Marquis into a batch of cyclists during a race in Mexico back in '08, was indeed a man. Though I guess this is not relevant, since the reason Saudi officials refuse to allow women to drive is mostly to keep them from leading independent lives. Then again, what do I know? At least intoxication was behind this guy's horrible act. The guy in the next picture did a similar thing, but with a lot more damage. His move was intentional and entirely sober.

Ricardo Neis got tired of waiting in his car while a monthly critical mass ride of bicyclists made their way through the Brazilian city of Porto Alegre a couple of months ago. Watch what he did about it. There's a lot of hate directed at bikes everywhere, every day, but this one tops them all. Be safe out there people. And may Libyans get a rest from the bloodshed and destruction around them. And may Saudi women be granted the right to drive. And may bicycles gain the respect they've always deserved.

Obscure Flags

#1) This is the un-agreed upon flag of the Roma people. Not to be confused with the Italian capital, nor the Romanian nation. The Roma are an ethnic group, originally of a South Asian origin, who have led semi-nomadic lives over the span of centuries, and have spread throughout the world, particularly in Eastern Europe. They tend to reside in "depressed squatter communities (isolated ghetto-like settlements)" and are known for their unparalleled musicianship. They often scavenge their sustenance from dumpsters and the like. I admire these people as free spirits. I guess their nickname as "gypsies" has a bad connotation, but to me they are nothing short of unadulterated human goodness.

#2) The ancient Indian spiritual path of Jainism has also its own emblem. The swastika has existed as a symbol of good fortune in the Indosphere for a very long, long time. Long before the Nazis perverted its meaning, and still today. Jainists pursue self-effort and extreme non-violence.

#3) This flag, known as the Wiphala, represents the Aymara people, an indigenous ethnic group in the Andean region. Its most recent exposure to the world came minutes ago when it was flown by a relative of one of the trapped miners in Chile who has been rescued. He is the only Bolivian that was down there. In 2009 the Bolivian government declared a new constitution, which added this as a national flag, alongside the other.

Xeno and Vexillophilia

#1 The flag of the nomadic Berber peoples of northern Africa. Their cultural (not to mention genetic) specificity has long been downplayed by Arab nations. #2. This flag is banned in Turkey, Syria, and Iran. It is the banner of the unrecognized Kurdish nation.

#3 The map is probably banned too.

THE CITY I WAS BORN IN

I only lived there for the very first month of my life,

yet for some reason it contains a large chunk of my heart,

tucked away inside an Andean valley of everlasting springtime,

on the northernmost reaches of the world's longest continental mountain range.

A short bus ride away from the axis of world-renowned coffee cultivation.

Just 60 miles east of the Pacific and 80 miles south of the Caribbean.

Colombia's 2nd metropolis and the world's 91st urban agglomeration.

An historical hub of oxen and mule path networks for cocoa farms.

Now the industrial capital of Colombia and orchid capital of the world.

Home of South America's first kidney transplant.

Affability and diligence are the qualities of its people.

Oh, and did I mention that it is Fernando Botero's home town?

He's the self-proclaimed "most Colombian of Colombian artists."

Famous for situational portraiture of proportionally exaggerated figures.

Did you guess which city yet?

Serene 17th (Part II)

Every so often people and places synchronize and line up like the planets, in my cab. That weekend my partner, Jenine, had come into town from Rhode Island, specifically to see the International Exposition of Sculpture Objects and Functional Art. She didn't bother asking me to go because she knew I'd refuse to spend $25 on admission, much less take the day off to go. Approaching 9 A.M., she was still asleep in my apartment as I hustled the streets for fares.

I made a pit stop at Starbucks on East 17th to go #2. I took exactly the perfect amount of time to complete that endeavor, because I immediately hopped back in the cab, made a left onto Fifth Ave., and magically picked up a woman who turned out to be one of the big dealers for that art show. Not one minute into the ride she handed me a free pass for two, good for all four days of the show (and $80 value!)

Now, as you hopefully read in the first half of this shift (previous post), I was having a really lucrative morning so far. I knew all of these things combined meant the universe was opening a window of opportunity for me to simply turn the cab in early today and go to the art show with Jenine. I couldn't contain my excitement, so I picked up the phone and gave her a rude, yet uplifting awakening. She went from cranky to ecstatic in 5 seconds. We agreed to wait an hour to see if I could will into existence a fare into Brooklyn. That hour went by and the closest I got was Battery Park City, so I decided to just hop on the Brooklyn Bridge and shoot down the BQE, since the Metropolitan exit lines right up with Ainslie, the very street that leads to my doorstep.

She joined me for my last two hours on-duty. We looped around the main drag of Williamsburg a few times and came out with a trio of the most delightful Ohioan tourists hopping flea markets. All they had to say was Fort Greene Flea and I knew exactly where to head. Jenine talked it up with them, so much to their enjoyment that they dished out $20 for a $10 fare. Upon crossing the Manhattan Bridge with an empty backseat, we parked in the Lower East Side briefly, so she could grab a snack from Babycakes (a vegan and gluten-free bakery). I also wanted to get a close up look at the three buildings on Grand and Eldridge that were charred in a blaze last week.

WE HAD THREE MORE MENTIONABLE FARES BEFORE TURNING IN THE CAB:
1. A Swedish couple, stuck in NY due to volcanic ash, who had a wonderful time chatting with and being transported to the Theater District by a dynamic taxi-operating duo, to see "In The Heights." Oh, how I love Jenine and her exquisite mind and spirit. And I must try to see that Broadway show. Never been to one, and I hear it's especially good if you love the anthropology of New York (as I obviously do!)

2. A lawyer who said most of her colleagues are buying East River-front condos in Brooklyn, hence contributing directly to the neighborhood's second wave of gentrification. First it was the Latinos. Now the artists and musicians who pushed them out. The history of SoHo repeats itself here.

3. A young New Yorker waiting for the B62 bus on Park Avenue by the Navy Yard. I drove past him and thought, "He's probably going to downtown Brooklyn. Why don't I just offer him a free ride, since it's in on our way to the depot?" Jenine looked at me funny as I stopped abruptly and reversed into the bus stop. The guy looked at me funny too, but accepted the offer without thinking twice. He'd been waiting 15 minutes for the bus and was so relieved to be given a free ride by a yellow cab, something that never happens. It felt good to do something I'd be so thankful for, if offered. And thankful he was! I even earned me a little peck on the cheek from a very beautiful co-pilot. He jumped out on Flatbush and Tillary.

We gassed up and turned in the cab. I mentioned a possible car problem to a mechanic at the garage, and he got upset that I hadn't brought the cab back when I first heard rattling noises in the axle. It started during my first two hours on the road. Returning the taxi then would have sabotaged this entire streak of luck. But that is not why I had neglected to bring the cab back. You see, at my previous garage in Greenpoint, both the dispatcher and the mechanics would have chewed me out for bringing a cab back that wasn't completely falling apart. As long as it ran, their policy was not to bother with it. Being the creature of routine protocol that I can be, I had that unpleasant and bankrupting scenario in my head when I chose to stay out.

The art expo turned out alright. Nothing I would have paid full admission for. Afterward we took the 6, N, and 7 trains out to Tito Rad's for a Pinoy meal. Lovely ambiance and tasty dishes, but the waitress didn't recognize the Pinay in Jenine, which was a bit of a bummer.

My favorite part of the entire evening were the two Senegalese men on the subway platform beneath 68th Street, playing and singing traditional Senegalese music that raised the hairs on my arms with its beautiful grace and humility.

Last but not least: I have a brief request for the folks in charge of TAXI TV. Is there any way you could refrain from playing that little recording over and over and over again, throughout every single fare..... the one that says, "Welcome to Del Frisco's" ? It's really drilling a hole through not only my head, but the heads of a number of passengers who've complained. And, if you could, when a passenger presses the off button, could you see to it that it actually does in fact go off, and not back on again without anyone's permission? I would really appreciate it, from the bottom of my heart!

Thank You Eyjafjallajokull

Image Source: http://blog.roomwithaview.is/

It seems everyone was so focused on the widespread inconveniences caused by that volcanic eruption in Iceland that they forgot to look at it from a different perspective. In the cab all week I broke the ice with passengers by commenting on how much kerosene wasn't being burned into the atmosphere, hence giving the planet's lungs a little time to catch their breath.

I HEARD ON THE NEWS THAT AS SOON AS SOME AIRLINES FLEW TEST FLIGHTS WITHOUT PASSENGERS THROUGH THE VOLCANIC ASHES AND CAME OUT ALIVE, THERE WAS AN UPROAR WORLDWIDE QUESTIONING THE NEED FOR AIRSPACE RESTRICTIONS IN THE FIRST PLACE. I'M SORRY BUT HUMAN BEINGS ARE QUITE THE INSATIABLE CROWD. IF THE AIRLINES AND THEIR GOVERNMENTS WOULD HAVE BEEN CARELESS AND ALLOWED FLIGHTS TO PLUNGE CATASTROPHICALLY OUT OF THE SKIES, THAT WOULD HAVE BEEN A CONTROVERSY TOO. YOU CAN'T WIN WITH PEOPLE. THE BLAME GAME NEVER CEASES.

FACT OF THE MATTER IS THAT JET ENGINES SUCK IN OXYGEN IN ORDER TO IGNITE THE TURBINES, WHICH COMPRESS THE AIR, THEREBY PUSHING THE PLANE FORWARD. WE DO NOT WANT TO FIND OUT WHAT HAPPENS WHEN FINE DUST PARTICLES FROM THE VOLCANO INTERRUPT AND CHOKE THE ENGINES AND TURBINES.

On a side note, here's an article about a famous comedian who took a taxi from Norway to Belgium. And here's an article about how Eyjafjallajokull is affecting New York City. I love the butterfly effect. I do! Please do give my other blog a brief visit, especially if you live in NYC. You might find it helpful, whether you take taxicabs or drive one.

The latest post is called FROM FLEA TO SHINING FLEA!

FIERCELY LOYAL GRAVY TRAINS

An azimuthal equidistant projection, centered at the North Pole, between two olive branches. That is the flag of the UN. What I wonder though is: who raises all the other flags every morning. Each time I drive past the complex, I can't decide if each nation has someone in charge of this daily ceremony, or if an anonymous team of blue collars is dealt the task. Is it done in unison, all 192 member states along the colorful corridor of flagpoles? I always forget to ask when a foreign delegate gets in my cab.

This week I picked up a book that I had given up trying to read years ago, because of time constraints and random circumstances. Now I feel bad for having neglected Jay Griffith's magnanimously omniscient writing. Some of my favorite chunks so far have been these:
"Time is not measured in hours but in experience."
"Only those who live not in time but in the present are happy."
"Sea Horses mate at full moon and it's the male that gets pregnant."
"Modernity knows the strut and the fret but not the hour."
"Time is highly political."

It was almost 5 am on Water and Pine when an Irish bartender stumbled out into the street. Nearly choking on his own drool he just barely sputtered directions at me. "Brooklyn Bridge. BQE to Maurice Ave." We got off the highway in Maspeth (Queens) and he kept saying, "left here". But there was no left to make. "You mean right?" He just got louder with his left rant. So I pointed to the right at the last second and asked, "this way?". He agreed buoyantly, fading in and out of consciousness. When we stopped at his duplex he opened the door and literally fell out unto the curb. The red flags inside my head had begun to tatter in the wind. I walked around and got in his face with an outstretched open palm. You owe me 24 dollars. "Alright, alright don't be a prick about it." He only had 11 in cash, 7 ketchup packets, a wad of napkins, a set of keys, and no CC.

After checking his emptied pockets 5 more times he had me follow him inside. When he turned on the lights his girlfriend laid half asleep on the couch and the dog had ripped apart countless random objects that were strewn about the floor. He made her go into the back and get money. This entire scenario reminds me of the time I tried to help my phlebotomist crawl out of her depression. An impromptu camping trip to the beach ended up inside a pitch black trailer home littered with mounds of dog shit that I got all over myself while trying to sneak out.

Five ladies from the UK giggled and gawked at my traffic maneuvers, all the way from Le Parker Meridian to TGIF. Just like their hotel's motto, they are "uptown but not uptight". And it was TGI Sunday to them. And it's true.... not all of Great Britain is cheap. These ladies tipped handsomely.

Out of the blue, my mother began screaming at me from inside her bedroom. I ran over to see her watching ABC news. She scolded me for always offering to make sure people's unwanted electronics end up away from the landfill. I try to be some sort of quasi eco-warrior but today the TV is saying that electronic recycling has a very dark side. It all ends up smuggled to China, where people in slums melt it down in exchange for $2 a day and a slew of ailments. Once again, the only true solution is reducing rampant consumerism and not being so naive all the time.

At the age of 14, my dad and I were traversing a darkened parking lot after our tennis match in the lit courts of a park in a suburb of Houston. A light in the night sky caught our attention. We watched it for a quarter hour as it made extraterrestrial movements. Hovering, then shooting across in a straight line, then shifting directions at unbelievable angles. It was too far away to reveal any structural detail. Just a white blob, slightly larger than that of a visible planet. Nothing is impossible to me. I used to borrow UFO books from the nonfiction section of the library as a teenager. The whole topic's been put on the shelf for years now though.

I didn't always have a job that I felt belonged to me and I to it. Being a yellow cabbie in NYC has indeed been my longest lasting and favorite source of employment. But it's only been that way for 25 months. Before that I had been a truck driver for a residential moving company in New Jersey, a bicycle messenger on the streets of Manhattan, a produce van deliveryman for a warehouse in Miami, a remodelation debris grunt (manual laborer) on oceanfront condos, a shelver/page at a public library, a graveyard shift custodian at my own university, a pedicab peddler (bike taxi) in West Palm Beach, a helper electrician digging trenches, assistant to a wheelchair bound nursery/metal shop owner, a nursing home companion, a silk fabric art exhibitionist's assistant, and last (and least)..... when I turned 16, my first job ever was at McDonald's. I've come a long way from $5.25 an hour.

CAUTION to NYC taxicabs:
new rule: no left on 40th off broadway.
new red lite camera: 9 av crossing 26th

NOTE TO ALL:
Take a moment to sign the petition at www.donotmail.org
and prevent telemarketing calls on your cellular by dialing 888.382.1222.
Follow the automated prompt for your 10 digits, or just get rid of the damn device.

Fruitcake Elucidations of Gotham

Juxtapositions of ethnicities that sit in the taxicab on a daily basis amaze me. And even more befuddling is when months go by without a single Filipino passenger, and then four pop up within a week. Mind you that 62,058 of them live in NYC. One of them was an adorably diminutive, yet thoroughly sagacious gastroenterologist on his way to BIMC. The second, an iron willed secretary of an important surgeon at Sloan Kettering Cancer Center, who spends every last nickel sending her child to the best school in Manhattan. The third, a charismatic sculptor whose day job is interior design. The fourth, an older and much less Amerissimilated agent of Manilabound tourism at the nonprofit building which houses the consulate. She lives walking distance but was running late that day. A sprinkle of vexillology to top off the paragraph: flag of Phillipines and Czech Republic are astoundingly similar, considering they have nothing in common, cultural nor geographic. Same for Indonesia and Poland. It's as if Oceania and Eastern Europe were destined to be each other's parallel alternates.

Motoyuki, a ship engine salesman from Osaka, entered the cab near Chelsea Market and explained that his name means "being honest" as we careened towards the WiFi hotspot of Murray Hill. "That was fun", said an older businesswoman en route to the NY Yacht Clubhouse. The otherwise 20 minute cab ride up Avenue of the Americas lasted 420 seconds at 6:30 am. It pays to rise with the sun when surface transportation is your mode.

A retired NYU administrative staffer fought her way into the cab as a brisk breeze blew. She claims to know every nook among these urban canyons where the angles made by the crisscrossing of several streets combine with open air squares to create acute drafts of wind that have been known to knock people down. She's keen on these micro jet streams since a hip replacement sensitized her.

Four suits on their way to the Apple store by Grand Army Plaza, speak in tongues and act like they're preparing to jump out of a helicopter and into a battlefield, assigning each other roles. Something about the mayor confronting someone over buying out the Wendy's Corp. You drop them off at some sort of live, televised press conference. They beat around the bush when you inquire. "Come pick me up later. I wish every cabdriver drove like you."

A tax lawyer, whose obscure accent is a blend of the Queens he grew up in and the Ireland his father who raised him is from, warms up to the psychologist cabdriver you bring out in yourself and shares what plagues his mind: "My job is to help rich people get richer (in court). It's morally corrupt because they just sit on it like eggs, while people with less who strive to succeed and do the right thing have no access to fair and square distribution of wealth".

I love how much easier it is to talk with someone about their hometown once you've swallowed a good book about that region. I remember as a little squirt borrowing the straight, dry lists of factual trivia from the library. Nowadays I seek out endearing sociopolitical stories in order to touch the more human spirit side of my favorite subject: geography. So I just finished this book, which has made my conversations with Brazilian passengers all the more alchemized. I'm unto another one now, about how this guy escaped hell on the fringe of his continent and started over in New York. However, I'm bound to run into more Sierra Leonese cabdrivers than back seat passengers. Still, no less potent a dialogue.

The turbulent state of our economy has shown its face in my cab these past few weeks. Many passengers on their way to job interviews after getting laid off from big shots in the financial world. Not sure where their next pay check might come from. Yet too much in denial to admit that a cab ride is no longer in their budget. The manager of a Starbucks in Midtown had me reverse the cab until it lied near a storefront covered completely by newspaper, cardboard, and tape. Inside was the hollow skeleton of what used to be a cafe. She was shocked by the thrill on my face when asked to help load some boxes. I'm in desperate need of less mental exercise and more perspiration, as muscle atrophy and spinal paralysis looms amidst 240 hours of car seat posturing. So we delivered a full cab load of coffee shop paraphernalia another location that isn't going out of business and I was rewarded with an iced Macchiato.

In enters a 'friendly' man who until yesterday was a diamond dealer, and is now in search of a new 'career'. Thanks for the 10% tip. It really demonstrated your appreciation for my willingness to take you six mangled, gridlocked blocks in the opposite direction as my garage, where the cab was due back in 15 minutes so that the night driver (who has 3 children to feed) could start his shift. Remember my off-duty lights were lit, doors clamped shut, and I decelerated only because your face was moaning in agony and your finger was pointing towards Brooklyn. You even blasted the synthetic air that gives me migraines on this gorgeous, no-where-near humid day of 81 degrees and gas is at $4.33/g..

I feel like I got manhandled by you in half a dozen different ways. Where'd all those diamonds go? People only keep what they give. Therefore we're losing nearly everything. This man had got so sympathetic with me when I mentioned that dad is Israeli. He even shared his handful of distorted Hebrew phrases for a few moments. And your mom? She's Colombian. Oh. Awkward gap. Take it all back. Nothing against latinos. Just lost the mutual Jew 'contact high', that's all. The only way to correct having humiliated someone is by being humiliated.