Nowadays, taxi drivers must be among the most educated people, second only to university students. They are the ones who experience life directly from its source, from us, amid the daily wars we fight, in the midst of chaos and destruction, sadness and fear, distraction and awe, happiness and joy, in the heart of our battles and peace. You'll find them in their conversations with us, with surprising spontaneity, sharing tales of their days, and you, in turn, end up sharing your day with them—its highs and lows. That's what happened to me when I got into that taxi.
The driver asked, "Are you a foreigner?" with a distinct English accent. Honestly, I don't know how Arabs do it, but they seem to be masters at identifying foreigners. I responded in Arabic: "My father was a student at Al-Azhar University before he moved to Britain to complete his studies, where he stayed after meeting my mother."
The driver smiled through the rear view mirror and said something that stayed with me for a long time: "The vastness of the homeland runs through our genes, something we seek refuge in and return to, something that reciprocates our feelings."
I took a deep breath, looking out at the city, and thought to myself: Even though I had never been to Egypt before, each time I crossed its crowded streets, I felt a closeness to something I couldn't understand until now—a sense of tranquility. He continued, thinking I had come as a tourist: "Have you visited Giza before? I go there with my family every month, and I recommend you visit it if you haven't. There's a kind of magic there, and every time I stand before the Great Pyramid, it feels impossible to leave. I almost count the days until my next visit, like a prisoner awaiting freedom."
I responded, "I've never been there before, but I plan to visit this time. I'm here with a classmate to research for our graduation thesis. We were told that the Grand Street Library has the sources we need."
"And did you find what you were looking for today?" he asked.
"Yes," I replied, "but my classmate beat me to it. I'm going there now to see if we have enough to get started."
"Good luck then," he said with a smile.
The conversation fell into a comfortable silence, and I felt a warmth inside, its source nearby—Egypt itself. I opened the book I had bought, and randomly turned to a page that read: "From my teacher Veras, I learned that being far from home is both painful and comforting at once—painful estrangement and comforting nostalgia." It was as if the book had been listening to our conversation and wanted to delve deeper into it.
A few minutes later, Mandine exited the car as we reached her destination. The driver also stepped out, unloading her bags one by one, smiling at her, thanking her for her kindness. She paid him in pounds and thanked him again for the ride and their conversation.
As the taxi drove away, Mandine stood for a moment, her eyes scanning the place. Something had changed since the last time she stood here—the houses looked different, more vibrant. She thought to herself, "Time can really change everything." Children played nearby, their laughter filling the air, while some women on a balcony observed, complaining about the weather inside their homes.
Mandine, still holding her bags, walked to the door of one of the houses. She glanced at the house number and checked her phone to make sure she hadn't missed the address. She knocked lightly, and the door opened almost immediately, revealing a little girl.
"Mommy, Mandine's here!" the little girl exclaimed, her eyes sparkling with excitement. Mandine smiled and bent down to embrace her. "You've grown so much, how beautiful you look," she said, planting a kiss on the girl's cheek. The little girl beamed, loving the attention. Women, after all, always enjoy hearing words of praise, even if it's just to please.
At that moment, a young woman in her mid-twenties appeared, wearing a kitchen apron. She and Mandine exchanged a quick hug, excited to catch up after so long, and then they went inside together.