It's great that in New York City, good conversation can unexpectedly pop up at any moment.
Last Thursday night, I had gone out to dinner and drinks in the East Village. It was past midnight and the streets looked absolutely beautiful from the heavy snow that was falling and covering everything visible to the eye. I parted ways with my friend after they hopped into a taxi cab on 2nd Avenue first. I caught one for myself soon after, and my nice driver started making conversation with me.
"Are you Chinese?" he asked.
"No, I'm Korean-American," I responded a little buzzed and with a smile.
He then apologized for asking me what he did, and I told him it was fine and not a big deal. Then he began to share with me about all the times he's mistakenly been asked by his customers if he is Indian, and how he always had to tell them no he's from Bangladesh. He described how it sometimes hurt him deep in his soul when people made an assumption with their question. He beat his left chest with an open hand as he told me about how proud he was to be who he was, and where he was from. His wife and children were all still back in his home country, and his description about how much he missed them made me want to tell his family about the great father he was.
After I shut the yellow taxi door while in front of my apartment building, I stood there and watched the car slowly disappear into the snowy night. And I wished him all the best.
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