Monsieur Kamel I miss you

I held the tea cup in my hand in L’Express Bleu, the barasserie at the Gare du Lyon, my petit dejeneur in front of me. The murals of people in 19^th century dress are behind me, photos of trains in front of me. Suitcases outnumbered people eating. My hands were still shaking. On the taxi ride from Puteaux to the train station we had two near accidents. Another coat of paint and we would have crashed first into a taxi then into a bus.

My usual taxi driver, Monsieur Kamel, took the vacances scholaire. He told me that when he drove me to Charles De Gaulle when I went to Florida before the holidays. Now I was back and heading to the South of France riding with another cab driver. My friend teases me that I am the only person she knows that befriends taxi drivers, but after numerous trips to airports and train stations in his taxi with him we have shared much information.

He is of Algerian descent although raised in France. He wears a full beard and talks at a speed that keeps me concentraing. We have exchanged so many ideas. He has asked me to come home to sample his wife’s couscous and sometime when I am in Paris long enough I will take him up on it. The last two times I have been in his taxi he has called people he knows to “meet” me. Thus I feel I know his sister, a school teacher, and his friend another cab driver.

Since taking my daughter to the airport last year, he always asks about her and shakes his head that neither she or my hostess are married. Given a bit of encouragement, I am sure he would start seeking husbands for these women.

Monsieur Kamel has another wonderful quality. He is a sane driver.