“Excuse me, do you mind if we share a cab?” The gentleman that I was shouting to stood about 5’6’’. His companion, a thin woman just slightly shorter, was bundling up to protect herself from the strong San Francisco Bay wind. I was doing the same. “Uh, sure. Uh, where are you headed? We’re going to Union Square” he replied, the “uh’s” used for language guides though his thick accent. I told him the name of our hotel, a mere 2 minutes from Union Square. “Then of course! Let’s go together!” he said. The friendliness in his voice was oddly un-American, giving away his foreign lineage more than his accent. No stranger in D.C. has never welcomed me so warmly into a cab in my life.

The four of us (the gentleman, his companion, me and mine) ran out into the bitter wind, jumping into the cab. We were greeted by an equally friendly driver with an equally thick accent. (I was not yet able to identify the accents of either newfound friend or cabdriver. Perhaps Italian and Saudi Arabian, respectively? I wasn’t sure...) “Where you headed?” he asked us. I replied “Union Square.” to which he retorted back, “How fast do you want to get there?”. We all laughed and were immediately put at ease - 5 strangers, four of which were tourists in San Francisco, all now like old friends.

As we rode, the cab driver and our party exchanged witty banter, interspersed with tour-bus like fun facts about San Francisco. We discussed the architecture, the traffic, the food. He cracked a joke about how the Americans (obviously, at this point, referencing me and my partner) sat in the back because we knew a secret - that in America, the one who sits in the front seat has to foot the entire bill. Again we chuckled. He continued, “See, at least Americans know something!”. I took no offense, fully prepared to engage in funny dialogue about the intelligence or lack thereof of Americans. But the conversation took a different turn.

“Don’t worry he said. “I am not American. I have been here 27 years but I am not from here. I am from someplace that everyone knows. Someplace that people all know.” He took a pause as if we were on a game show and had 10 seconds to guess the country. When no one did he answered for us: “I am from Afghanistan.”. “Really?” we all said with equal respect and curiosity - a million questions were running through my mind: Do you hate America for what we (guilt by association) have done to your country? Do you hate Bush? What do you think about Islamofascism? I know, I know. I should have wondered less heavy things. I should have had questions about culture, and music, and food, and his family. But it turns out that my assumption that an Afghani in America would have a lot say about the war on terror, was correct. He launched into a 20 minute commentary about just that.  

”You see, take a prison. A guy comes in serving 20 years for murder. He has nothing to do but, how you say….uh.....pump iron. He gets big and strong. A new guy comes in for a lesser crime and he is small. So he has to do whatever the big guy says, right? Right. Get my food. Pick up my soap. You do what I say because I’m stronger than you.” I chuckle quietly at the pick up the soap reference as he continues. “America  is like that big guy in prison. He is bigger and third world countries are like the small guys. We do what America says. And America bully us. Beat us up and take our lunch money. It is not fair.”  

The other gentleman in the front seat nodded in agreement, adding a fervent “ You are right, they bully us.” He stops a minute and lets it all soak in. I am quiet, wishing so badly that I could jump in and more legitimately claim the “African” in my “African American” to agree with some earned perspective of America’s foreign policy.

“But that’s why I love traveling.” the man said to the taxi driver, almost as if to highlight the silver lining in this dark, dark cloud. “When you travel, especially in America, you learn that there are good people everywhere. It is power that corrupts some. But there are good people everywhere."

Having been quiet for most of the ride, I quickly piped up, eager to identify myself as one of the “good people”, “Yes, there are!", I said, a bit too enthusiastically. "There are absolutely good people everywhere!!!!”.

As if on cue, the cab stopped at my hotel. Pulling out my wallet and mentally splitting the bill, the gentleman stopped me - “We’ve got it. Please. Let me pay.” I argued profusely, adamant that I pay my fair share of the cab fare, partly out of pride and partly as if by paying my fair share I could make up for my country’s soiled reputation. No such luck. He insisted. I thanked him over and over again, knowing that he had given me more than a free ride. He had given me perspective on America’s place in the world, the dynamics of power and privilege, what a new administration is up against, and, most importantly a much needed, gentle reminder that good people are indeed everywhere.