Outside, it is 15 degrees (that is what it feels like, according to Yahoo Weather) and though I thought I had bundled up successfully and strategically, walking towards the metro felt like lurching through a freezer.
I made it three doors down from my building before a cab pulled over; he mistook my violent shivering as a gesture for his attention.
I gratefully dove in to both the back seat and the dulcet, erudite tones of the BBC world service, which was emerging from several speakers at a volume that was on the wrong side of my comfort levels. If it hadn’t been the Beeb, it would’ve been unbearable.
While we waited for the light to change on Connecticut Avenue NW, I noticed how he was peering at me via the rear-view mirror. I was frantically trying to remember if I had my security badge at the bottom of my boat ‘n’ tote.
We sailed forward, in that smooth, sinking-in-to-pudding way which is unique to Town cars and he made mirror-eye-contact with me again. He smiled slightly.
“Are you from Nairobi?â€
How odd. I am forever getting confused for the other kind of Sheba. “No, my parents are from India.â€
He looked at me like I was daft.
“You’re Indian.â€
It was a declaration, and an odd, exasperated one at that, not a question. I didn’t feel like playing this variation of the “Where are you from?†game on an empty and caffeine-free stomach so I tried to deflect.
“Um, are you from…Nairobi?â€, I asked. Continue reading →