I imagine cab drivers gossiping.
In cabs in all of the cities I've been to over the past couple months, cab drivers are constantly talking on their phones, their Bluetooth's wedged into the ears. They only stop when you first get in the cab- the nice ones will ask if you mind them talking on the phone- and then when you get out, although that's rare. I'm not interested in trying to figure out what language they're speaking. I've never been one for languages and I don't feel propelled to start to appreciate languages just because I'm in a cab and there's nothing else to do.
They're most likely working other jobs.
That's what Spence said and it's what they joked about in Zohan. But still, I imagine them gossiping to friends back home, telling them about American women and funny conversations that happened when they were buying coffee. I wonder if they have the same self-awareness in their conversations that American conversations have come to have? Like, they're telling their stories, but through the scope of how they approached the situation, explaining how the situation made them feel and how it altered the rest of the day. Has Real World culture infiltrated cabbie-gossip circles?
Traveling alone leads to these kind of thoughts.
Being alone when the traveling ends further foster these thoughts and being alone on a Sunday makes them become rambling, pointless blogs as you're waiting for your laundry to get done- probably the only load that it going to be done today.
Arriving at the hotel in San Diego late Sunday night (for me at least,) I checked in, ditched my bags in the room, and walked over to the bar next door for a few beers to help call it a day. The bar was only half crowded, just a few bleached blonds with guys who were either roadies for Blink 182 or stunt doubles, a couple lesbians chatting it up with a bald fella and a quiet Mexican with a fondness for Pink Floyd. I wasn't really in the mood to talk, only to throw back a couple, but I noticed that the bartender had a Sox hat on- backwards and white, but a Sox hat nonetheless.
"You a Sox fan?" I asked, as he handed my second beer, a Fat Tire.
"Yeah. I'm from Boston."
I started to respond, but he had already turned away. That was it. No Sox talk, not even a comment about how this year's team has serious offensive concerns or not. Not even a fuck Manny or a I love our pitching. I wasn't totally put off because I really wasn't up for conversing, but I was a little surprised. It's not as if there was no one else in the place that either required immediate attention or was overly conversationally appealing. I guess I just assumed a Sox conversation would happen, I mean I'm from Maine and this dude's from Boston and here we are on a sleepy Sunday night in San Diego with reruns of NBA games played earlier in the day on the TV.
But no, no Sox talk.
Quickly I grew to become pretty annoyed with this dude and sized him up as the kind of blowhard from 40 minutes outside of Boston who still said he was from Boston. He wasn't anyone I wanted to talk to, and I had made it all the way across the country without having one random conversation with someone, so why start now?
If I had a Bluetooth in, I would have asked if he minded if I talked on the phone.
There's no point to this, it's just a small handful of minutes grouped together by a small, unifying theme. But this is all traveling is, the stringing together of inconsequential details and mildly amusing interactions. It's seeing hicks getting on airplanes for the first time and suits stir cocktails while scanning lap tops. Families trying to stay together and realizing that women look cooler walking through airports than dudes do.
It's everything that seems relevant at the time, but immediately isn't as soon as you are done. Like a good sandwich, funny joke, or quick glimpse of someone tripping over their bag.
One minute it's amazing, then next it's non-existent.