Taxi Show Quotes

{Replying to G. H. Hardy's suggestion that the number of a taxi (1729) was 'dull', showing off his spontaneous mathematical genius} No, it is a very interesting number; it is the smallest number expressible as a sum of two cubes in two different ways, the two ways being 13 + 123 and 93 + 103.

It was amazing how I was able to ignore all his cursing, but he knew airplanes. He showed me how to line up straight on the obscene-curse-word runway and how to use the curse-word throttle and rudder to control the blasphemous-curse-word-plane, how to taxi down the smutty-curse-word runway and, when I got up to top speed, how to add up-elevator and how to maintain a simple-curse-word gradual ascent.

Egyptians undergo an odd personality change behind the wheel of a car. In every other setting, aggression and impatience are frowned upon. The unofficial Egyptian anthem "Bokra, Insha'allah, Malesh" (Tomorrow, God Willing, Never Mind) isn't just an excuse for laziness. In a society requiring millennial patience, it is also a social code dictating that no one make too much of a fuss about things. But put an Egyptian in the driver's seat and he shows all the calm and consideration of a hooded swordsman delivering Islamic justice.

US crime rates show a steady rise in violent crime throughout the 1960s and ’70s, peaking in 1980. Taxi Driver came out in February 1976; the bleak and violent film was hailed as an encapsulation of its time, to no one’s surprise. Many retired cops I talk to, from Sacramento but other places too, uniformly recall 1968 to 1980 as a particularly grim period.

The killer simply picked any one of the men in gray suits and followed them from office building to cash machine, from lunchtime restaurant back to office building. Those gray suits were not happy, yet showed their unhappiness only during moments of weakness. Punching the buttons of a cash machine that refused to work. Yelling at a taxi that had come too close. Insulting the homeless people who begged for spare change. But the killer also saw the more subtle signs of unhappiness. A slight limp in uncomfortable shoes. Eyes closed, head thrown back while waiting for the traffic signal. The slight hesitation before opening a door. The men in gray suits wanted to escape, but their hatred and anger trapped them.

Hey, I got an idea, let’s go to the movies. I wanna go to the movies, I want to take you all to the movies. Let’s go and experience the art of the cinema. Let’s begin with the Scream Of Fear, and we are going to haunt us for the rest of our lives. And then let’s go see The Great Escape, and spend our summer jumping our bikes, just like Steve McQueen over barb wire. And then let’s catch The Seven Samurai for some reason on PBS, and we’ll feel like we speak Japanese because we can read the subtitles and hear the language at the same time. And then let’s lose sleep the night before we see 2001: A Space Odyssey because we have this idea that it’s going to change forever the way we look at films. And then let’s go see it four times in one year. And let’s see Woodstock three times in one year and let’s see Taxi Driver twice in one week. And let’s see Close Encounters of the Third Kind just so we can freeze there in mid-popcorn. And when the kids are old enough, let’s sit them together on the sofa and screen City Lights and Stage Coach and The Best Years of Our Lives and On The Waterfront and Midnight Cowboy and Five Easy Pieces and The Last Picture Show and Raging Bull and Schindler’s List… so that they can understand how the human condition can be captured by this amalgam of light and sound and literature we call the cinema.

Tips for aliens in New York: ‘Land anywhere, Central Park, anywhere. No one will care, or indeed even notice. ‘Surviving: Get a job as a cab driver immediately. A cab driver’s job is to drive people anywhere they want to go in big yellow machines called taxis. Don’t worry if you don’t know how the machine works and you can’t speak the language, don’t understand the geography or indeed the basic physics of the area, and have large green antennae growing out of your head. Believe me, this is the best way of staying inconspicuous. ‘If your body is really weird try showing it to people in the streets for money.

There’s a lot of scientific evidence demonstrating that focused attention leads to the reshaping of the brain. In animals rewarded for noticing sound (to hunt or to avoid being hunted, for example), we find much larger auditory centers in the brain. In animals rewarded for sharp eyesight, the visual areas are larger. Brain scans of violinists provide more evidence, showing dramatic growth and expansion in regions of the cortex that represent the left hand, which has to finger the strings precisely, often at very high speed. Other studies have shown that the hippocampus, which is vital for spatial memory, is enlarged in taxi drivers. The point is that the physical architecture of the brain changes according to where we direct our attention and what we practice doing.

What am I supposed to do,” I asked, “hail a taxi at the Mexico City airport and say, ‘Take me to Donald Trump’?

I had a bad blackout last night.” Agnes then told Jinty the story of the bingo and the taxi and the driver pulling over into the Pit mouth. She lifted the sleeve on her jumper and showed Jinty the finger marks the rapist had left in her white skin.

Now the evening's at its noon, its meridian. The outgoing tide has simmered down, and there's a lull-like the calm in the eye of a hurricane - before the reverse tide starts to set in. The last acts of the three-act plays are now on, and the after-theater eating places are beginning to fill up with early comers; Danny's and Lindy's - yes, and Horn & Hardart too. Everybody has got where they wanted to go - and that was out somewhere. Now everybody will want to get back where they came from - and that's home somewhere. Or as the coffee-grinder radio, always on the beam, put it at about this point: 'New York, New York, it's a helluva town, The Bronx is up, the Battery's down, And the people ride around in a hole in the ground. Now the incoming tide rolls in; the hours abruptly switch back to single digits again, and it's a little like the time you put your watch back on entering a different time zone. Now the buses knock off and the subway expresses turn into locals and the locals space themselves far apart; and as Johnny Carson's face hits millions of screens all at one and the same time, the incoming tide reaches its crest and pounds against the shore. There's a sudden splurge, a slew of taxis arriving at the hotel entrance one by one as regularly as though they were on a conveyor belt, emptying out and then going away again. Then this too dies down, and a deep still sets in. It's an around-the-clock town, but this is the stretch; from now until the garbage-grinding trucks come along and tear the dawn to shreds, it gets as quiet as it's ever going to get. This is the deep of the night, the dregs, the sediment at the bottom of the coffee cup. The blue hours; when guys' nerves get tauter and women's fears get greater. Now guys and girls make love, or kill each other or sometimes both. And as the windows on the 'Late Show' title silhouette light up one by one, the real ones all around go dark. And from now on the silence is broken only by the occasional forlorn hoot of a bogged-down drunk or the gutted-cat squeal of a too sharply swerved axle coming around a turn. Or as Billy Daniels sang it in Golden Boy: While the city sleeps, And the streets are clear, There's a life that's happening here. ("New York Blues")

She clicked open the door and glided into the back seat like a summer breeze through an open window on the highway. "Where are you heading?", His Southern twang reminded her of home, but her eyes showed him no familiarity. She stared at him, void of expression, her thoughts racing. "Miss?", he persisted. "Anywhere. Please. Just drive.", she replied tersely, not sure if she even wanted her mind to join her in the back seat. The driver stared into her eyes and somehow understood, he started the engine and on they went. Two strangers, a blur of yellow, in pursuit of nowhere.

Today, there was no time for the old rituals and the old ways; there was barely time in each day to kiss your son good morning and your wife goodbye as you rushed out to the shop, trying to make a living, before trudging home with nothing to show after you’d paid the taxi fares and bought the milk for Klein Ben’s porridge …

After that, studies started to show that everyone from violinists to taxi drivers beef up relevant brain areas with new cells and connections, just as we build muscles with physical exercise. Lazar’s study showed that meditation can do this too. For the first time, it was possible to explain how the practice might permanently change psychology and physiology.

A woman named Cynthia once told me a story about the time her father had made plans to take her on a night out in San Francisco. Twelve-year-old Cynthia and her father had been planning the “date” for months. They had a whole itinerary planned down to the minute: she would attend the last hour of his presentation, and then meet him at the back of the room at about four-thirty and leave quickly before everyone tried to talk to him. They would catch a tram to Chinatown, eat Chinese food (their favourite), shop for a souvenir, see the sights for a while and then “catch a flick” as her dad liked to say. Then they would grab a taxi back to the hotel, jump in the pool for a quick swim (her dad was famous for sneaking in when the pool was closed), order a hot fudge sundae from room service, and watch the late, late show. They discussed the details over and over again before they left. The anticipation was part of the whole experience. This was all going according to plan until, as her father was leaving the convention centre, he ran into an old college friend and business associate. It had been years since they had seen each other, and Cynthia watched as they embraced enthusiastically. His friend said, in effect: “I am so glad you are doing some work with our company now. When Lois and I heard about it we thought it would be perfect. We want to invite you, and of course Cynthia, to get a spectacular seafood dinner down at the Wharf!” Cynthia’s father responded: “Bob, it’s so great to see you. Dinner at the wharf sounds great!” Cynthia was crestfallen. Her daydreams of tram rides and ice cream sundaes evaporated in an instant. Plus, she hated seafood and she could just imagine how bored she would be listening to the adults talk all night. But then her father continued: “But not tonight. Cynthia and I have a special date planned, don’t we?” He winked at Cynthia and grabbed her hand and they ran out of the door and continued with what was an unforgettable night in San Francisco. As it happens, Cynthia’s father was the management thinker Stephen R. Covey (author of The Seven Habits of Highly Effective People) who had passed away only weeks before Cynthia told me this story. So it was with deep emotion she recalled that evening in San Francisco. His simple decision “Bonded him to me forever because I knew what mattered most to him was me!” she said.5 One simple answer is we are unclear about what is essential. When this happens we become defenceless. On the other hand, when we have strong internal clarity it is almost as if we have a force field protecting us from the non-essentials coming at us from all directions. With Rosa it was her deep moral clarity that gave her unusual courage of conviction. With Stephen it was the clarity of his vision for the evening with his loving daughter. In virtually every instance, clarity about what is essential fuels us with the strength to say no to the non-essentials. Stephen R. Covey, one of the most respected and widely read business thinkers of his generation, was an Essentialist. Not only did he routinely teach Essentialist principles – like “The main thing is to keep the main thing the main thing” – to important leaders and heads of state around the world, he lived them.6 And in this moment of living them with his daughter he made a memory that literally outlasted his lifetime. Seen with some perspective, his decision seems obvious. But many in his shoes would have accepted the friend’s invitation for fear of seeming rude or ungrateful, or passing up a rare opportunity to dine with an old friend. So why is it so hard in the moment to dare to choose what is essential over what is non-essential?

You keep staying on our block we gonna have to show you what the burner do.” “Thank you, it’s great meeting you,” says Phoenix. “What’s a burner?” I whisper. “A gun,” Phoenix whispers back. The man loops and rejoins the others. The streets are deserted. It’s just the dealers and us. But then, miraculously, a taxi passes. I flag it. The superheroes all have bulletproof vests. I have nothing. I have a cardigan.

That morning she had tilted her head forward and asked Catherine what she thought of her new mascara. The mascara looked too heavy for her eyelids, like she was on the edge of sudden sleep. Now, as the taxi pulled out into the main road, Agnes made a show of looking back and waving mournfully through the rear window with a long, heavy blink. She thought it was a cinematic touch, like she was the star of her own matinee.

Cab drivers use spatial maps for a living, and one renowned study showed enlargement of that part of the hippocampus in London taxi drivers. Moreover, a follow-up study imaged the hippocampus in people before and after the grueling multiyear process of working and studying for the London cabbie license test (called the toughest test in the world by the New York Times). The hippocampus enlarged over the course of the process—in those who passed the test.27

The taxi driver has told me his entire life story for only 97 kroner, but from his story I gather what really happened: he got drunk last night and had a hangover this morning. He was about to call in sick but then remembered all his unpaid bills and went to work anyway. He quit working at sea and went ashore because he couldn’t keep his job. When he was no longer able to control his drinking, he was urged to quit his job as a fireman and now he earns a living driving a taxi. He has never been close to his mum but now that she doesn’t have much time left, he tries to show that he’s a good son. His wife left him. He gives money to his daughter in order to keep in touch with her … He wants to be heard. He wants to exist. He tries to avoid being lonely by talking about himself. If he had bothered to ask me, I would have told him that I just witnessed a child’s first breath, but I don’t give a fuck that he didn’t ask. Today, I resist the temptation to criticise anybody, and decide to show patience instead. ‘Thank you,’ I say with a smile. ‘Same to you. Have a nice day,’ he answers.

On my next-to-last day in the country, I flew into Tokyo from Sapporo and needed to get to Tokyo’s main railroad station, called Shinjuku. I climbed into a taxi at the airport and said to the driver, “Shinjuku station, please.” He didn’t seem to have any idea what I meant. I repeated my request, as articulately as I could, and he looked at me as if I had asked him to take me to Boise. I pulled a map of Tokyo out and showed him Shinjuku station. He studied this with a look of great dissatisfaction, but at length put the car in gear and we set off. We drove for what seemed hours through the endless, numbing sprawl of Tokyo. Eventually we entered a long, deep tunnel—a kind of underground freeway, it seemed. About a mile along, the driver pulled into an emergency parking bay and stopped. He pointed to a metal door cut into the tunnel wall and indicated that I should get out and go through that door. “You want me to go through that door?” I said in disbelief. He nodded robustly and presented me with a bill for about a zillion yen. Everything was beginning to seem more than a touch surreal. He took my money, gave me several small bills in change, and encouraged me to depart, with a little shooing gesture. This was crazy. We were in a tunnel, for crying out loud. If I got out and he drove off, I would be hundreds of feet under Tokyo in a busy traffic tunnel with no sidewalk or other escape. You’ll understand when I say this didn’t feel entirely right. “Through that door there?” I said again, dubiously. He nodded and made another shooing gesture. I got out with my suitcase and went up three metal steps to the door and turned the handle. The door opened. I looked back at the driver. He nodded in encouragement. Ahead of me, lit with what seemed emergency lighting, was the longest flight of stairs I had ever seen. It took a very long while to climb them all. At the top I came to another door, exactly like the one at the bottom. I turned the handle and cautiously opened it, then stepped out onto the concourse of the world’s busiest railway station. I don’t know whether this is the way lots of people get to Shinjuku or whether I am the only person in history ever to have done so. But what I do know is this: it’s why I like to travel.

Hey, I got an idea, let’s go to the movies. I wanna go to the movies, I want to take you all to the movies. Let’s go and experience the art of the cinema. Let’s begin with the Scream Of Fear, and we're gonna have it haunt us for the rest of our lives. And then let’s go see The Great Escape, and spend our summer jumping our bikes, just like Steve McQueen over barb wire. And then let’s catch The Seven Samurai for some reason on PBS, and we’ll feel like we speak Japanese because we can read the subtitles and hear the language at the same time. And then let’s lose sleep the night before we see 2001: A Space Odyssey because we have this idea that it’s going to change forever the way we look at films. And then let’s go see it four times in one year. And let’s see Woodstock three times in one year and let’s see Taxi Driver twice in one week. And let’s see Close Encounters of the Third Kind just so we can freeze there in mid-popcorn. And when the kids are old enough, let’s sit them together on the sofa and screen City Lights and Stage Coach and The Best Years of Our Lives and On The Waterfront and Midnight Cowboy and Five Easy Pieces and The Last Picture Show and Raging Bull and Schindler’s List… so that they can understand how the human condition can be captured by this amalgam of light and sound and literature we call the cinema.

It had been hard enough to drive past the area. It was harder to imagine what it was like living there. Yet people lived with the stench and the terrible air, and had careers there. Even lawyers lived there, I was told. Was the smell of excrement only on the periphery, from the iridescent black lake? No; that stench went right through Dharavi. Even more astonishing was to read in a Bombay magazine an article about Papu's suburb of Sion, in which the slum of Dharavi was written about almost as a bohemian feature of the place, something that added spice to humdrum middle-class life. Bombay clearly innoculated its residents in some way. I had another glimpse of Dharavi some time later, when I was going in a taxi to the domestic airport at Santa Cruz. The taxi-driver - a Muslim from Hyderabad, full of self-respect, nervous about living in Bombay, fearful of sinking, planning to go back home soon, and in the meantime nervously particular about his car and his clothes - the taxi-driver showed the apartment blocks on one side of the airport road where hutment dwellers had been rehoused. In the other direction he showed the marsh on which Dharavi had grown and, away in the distance, the low black line of the famous slum. Seen from here, Dharavi looked artificial, unnecessary even in Bombay: allowed to exist because, as people said, it was a vote-bank, and hate-bank, something to be drawn upon by many people. All the conflicting currents of Bombay flowed there as well; all the new particularities were heightened there. And yet people lived there, subject to this extra exploitation, because in Bombay, once you had a place to stay, you could make money.

The story of Cassius Clay’s lost bicycle would later be told as an indication of the boxer’s determination and the wonders of accidental encounters, but it carries broader meaning, too. If Cassius Clay had been a white boy, the theft of his bicycle and an introduction to Joe Martin might have led as easily to an interest in a career in law enforcement as boxing. But Cassius, who had already developed a keen understanding of America’s racial striation, knew that law enforcement wasn’t a promising option. This subject—what white America allowed and expected of black people—would intrigue him all his life. “At twelve years old I wanted to be a big celebrity,” he said years later. “I wanted to be world famous.” The interviewer pushed him: Why did he want to be famous? Upon reflection he answered from a more adult perspective: “So that I could rebel and be different from all the rest of them and show everyone behind me that you don’t have to Uncle Tom, you don’t have to kiss you-know-what to make it . . . I wanted to be free. I wanted to say what I wanna say . . . Go where I wanna go. Do what I wanna do.” For young Cassius, what mattered was that boxing was permitted, even encouraged, and that it gave him more or less equal status to the white boys who trained with him. Every day, on his way to the gym, Cassius passed a Cadillac dealership. Boxing wasn’t the only way for him to acquire one of those big, beautiful cars in the showroom window, but it might have seemed that way at the time. Boxing suggested a path to prosperity that did not require reading and writing. It came with the authorization of a white man in Joe Martin. It offered respect, visibility, power, and money. Boxing transcended race in ways that were highly unusual in the 1950s, when black Americans had limited control of their economic and political lives. Boxing more than most other sports allowed black athletes to compete on level ground with white athletes, to openly display their strength and even superiority, and to earn money on a relatively equal scale. As James Baldwin wrote in The Fire Next Time, many black people of Clay’s generation believed that getting an education and saving money would never be enough to earn respect. “One needed a handle, a lever, a means of inspiring fear,” Baldwin wrote. “It was absolutely clear the police would whip you and take you in as long as they could get away with it, and that everyone else—housewives, taxi

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The Mariner’s Officers Club was a classy place and much the same as the one I had heard about in Cape Town. Complete with “linen service” it was about as good as it gets. The Monkey Gland Steak… Not to worry, it’s only a name; no monkeys are a part of this tangy sauce that is a delicious blend of fruit and splices. The sauce can also be used as a marinade. As far as I know it is not on the market but can be made by frying minced onions, garlic and ginger in coconut oil until the onions are translucent. Pour this over your favorite steak or hamburger for an exciting taste treat. From here we took a taxi to the Smuggler’s Inn which was in a British Colonial Style building on Point Road. Although the area that the nightclub was in was considered part of the red light district it was a popular Avant guarde area where the younger in crowd of Durban would go. With upbeat music in the days prior to rock & roll it was a lot of fun. The bottom end of Point Road Mahatma Gandhi Road at night was always a hive of activity with Smugglers leading the way as an offbeat entertainment center. Before returning to Kerstin’s flat we had the driver take us to the end of the point where we could find the newest nightclubs with strip shows, music, dancing. We even witnessed a slug fest between some guys, known as a raut. For us it was a hoot and lots of fun but I’m certain that they were black & blue for days. Kerstin told me that many of the participants of these fights could be expected to show up at Dr. Acharya’s practice the following Monday. Returning to her apartment we enjoyed the rest of the evening in bed. At six o’clock the taxi I had called was waiting curbside. I considered how lucky I was to have connected with Kerstin but I still didn’t know much about her. Why did this beautiful girl come into my life? It was a mystery without an answer!

In the United Kingdom, transport is mostly provided to the public via road, air, and water. The county has a vast road network with 29,145 miles of main roads. However, road transport has experienced significant growth since 1952 with the increasing number of vehicles and cars in the country. Railways have also grown relatively slowly; but the statistics show that in 1952, taxi cabs or cars almost covered 27% of total transportation.

With my Keeper hat on, I decided that I could afford to spend $200 on advertising and taxis. And I could dedicate about 10 hours each week showing the apartment. This helped ensure that if I sold it I would make a good profit.

of the tiny aircraft and helped the third passenger aboard, his girlfriend Sandra, 30. The plane taxied and sped down the runway. As it rose into the blue California sun, Norman felt a surge of excitement. But as they banked east over Venice Beach, it was clear there was a storm ahead. In front of them a thick blanket of grey cloud was smothering the San Bernardino Mountains. Only the very tips of their 3,000 m (10,000 ft) peaks showed above the gloom. Norman Senior asked the pilot if it was okay to fly in that weather. The pilot reassured them: it was just a thirty-minute hop. They’d stay low and pop through the mountains to Big Bear before they knew it. Norman wondered if he’d be able to see the slope he’d won the championship on when they wheeled round Mount Baldy. His dad nodded and sat back to read the paper and whistle a Willie Nelson tune. Up front, Norman was savouring every moment. He stretched up to see over the plane’s dashboard and listened to the air traffic chatter on his headphones. As the foothills rose below them, he heard Burbank control pass their plane on to Pomona Control. The pilot told Pomona he wanted to stay below 2,300 m (7,500 ft) because of low freezing levels. Then a private plane radioed a warning against flying into the Big Bear area without decent instruments. Suddenly, the sun went out. The greyness was all around them, as thick as soup. They had pierced the storm. The plane shook and lurched. A tree seemed to flit by in the mist, its spiky fingers lunging at the window. But that couldn’t be, not up here. Then there really was a branch outside and with a sickening yawn, time slowed down and the horror unfurled. Norman instinctively curled into a ball. A wing clipped into a tree, tumbling the plane round, up, down, over and round. The spinning only stopped when they slammed into the rugged north face of Ontario Peak. The plane was instantly smashed into debris and the passengers hurled across an icy gully. And there they lay, sprawled amid the wreckage, 75 m (250 ft) from the top of the 2,650 m (8,693 ft) high mountain and perched on a 45-degree ice slope in the heartless storm.

There was a whole list that contained the word Palm, including PalmPad, PalMate, and PalmPal. Some names, such as Taxi and Passport, suggested mobility and travel. The last page showed a category Lindberg and Londy had titled "off the wall." It contained such ideas as Whussup?, Way to Go, and Pilot.

So they went out for a walk. They went through narrow, lightless lanes, where houses that were silent but gave out smells of fish and boiled rice stood on either side of the road. There was not a single tree in sight; no breeze and no sound but the vaguely musical humming of mosquitoes. Once, an ancient taxi wheezed past, taking a short-cut through the lane into the main road, like a comic vintage car passing through a film-set showing the Twenties into the film-set of the present, passing from black and white into colour. But why did these houses – for instance, that one with the tall, ornate iron gates and a watchman dozing on a stool, which gave the impression that the family had valuables locked away inside, or that other one with the small porch and the painted door, which gave the impression that whenever there was a feast or a wedding all the relatives would be invited, and there would be so many relatives that some of them, probably the young men and women, would be sitting bunched together on the cramped porch because there would be no more space inside, talking eloquently about something that didn’t really require eloquence, laughing uproariously at a joke that wasn’t really very funny, or this next house with an old man relaxing in his easy-chair on the verandah, fanning himself with a local Sunday newspaper, or this small, shabby house with the girl Sandeep glimpsed through a window, sitting in a bare, ill-furnished room, memorising a text by candlelight, repeating suffixes and prefixes from a Bengali grammar over and over to herself – why did these houses seem to suggest that an infinitely interesting story might be woven around them? And yet the story would never be a satisfying one, because the writer, like Sandeep, would be too caught up in jotting down the irrelevances and digressions that make up lives, and the life of a city, rather than a good story – till the reader would shout "Come to the point!" – and there would be no point, except the girl memorising the rules of grammar, the old man in the easy-chair fanning himself, and the house with the small, empty porch which was crowded, paradoxically, with many memories and possibilities. The "real" story, with its beginning, middle and conclusion, would never be told, because it did not exist.

His brother Najib owned an auto-parts store at bustling Shikarpur Gate, the mouth of the narrow road linking their village to the city—an ancient byway that had once led southward through the passes all the way to India. At dusk it is clogged with a riot of vegetable sellers’ handcarts beset by shoppers, Toyota pickup trucks, horse-drawn taxis, and three-wheeled rickshaws clambering around and through the throng like gaudy dung beetles. Nurallah’s brother Najib had gone to Chaman, just across the border in Pakistan, where the streets are lined with cargo containers serving as shops, and used motor oil cements the dust to the ground in a glossy tarmac, and every variety of automotive organ or sinew is laid bare, spread out, and strung up for sale. He had made his purchases and set off back to Kandahar. “He paid his customs dues”—Nurallah emphasized the remarkable point—“because that’s the law. He paid at every checkpoint on the way back, fifty afghanis, a hundred afghanis.” A dollar or two every time an unkempt, underage police boy in green fatigues slouched out of a sandbagged lean-to into the middle of the road—eight times in the sixty-six miles when last I counted. “And then when he reached the entrance to town, the police there wanted five hundred afghanis. Five hundred!” A double arch marks the place where the road that swoops down from Kabul joins the road leading in from Pakistan. The police range from one side to the other, like spear fishermen hunting trout in a narrows. “He refused,” Nurallah continued. “He said he had paid his customs dues—he showed them the receipt. He said he had paid the bribes at every checkpoint all along the way, and he was not paying again.” I waited a beat. “So what happened?” “They reached into his window and smacked him.” “They hit him?” I was shocked. Najib might be a sunny guy, but Kandahar tempers are strung on tripwires. For a second I thought we’d have to go bail him out. “What did he do?” Nurallah’s eyes, beneath his widow’s peak, were banked and smoldering. “What could he do? He paid the money. But then he pulled over to the side of the road and called me. I told him to stay right there. And I called Police Chief Matiullah Qatih, to report the officer who was taking the bribes.” And Matiullah had scoffed at him: Did he die of it? The police buzzards had seen Najib make the call. They had descended on him, snatched the phone out of his hand, and smashed it. “You call that law?” Now Nurallah was ablaze. “They’re the police! They should be showing people what the law is; they should be enforcing the law. And they’re the ones breaking it.” Nurallah was once a police officer himself. He left the force the day his own boss, Kabul police chief Zabit Akrem, was assassinated in that blast in the mosque in 2005.1 Yet so stout was Nurallah’s pride in his former profession that he brought his dark green uniform into work and kept it there, hung neatly on a hook in his locker. “My sacred oath,” he vowed, concluding: “If I see someone planting an IED on a road, and then I see a police truck coming, I will turn away. I will not warn them.” I caught my breath. So maybe he didn’t mean it literally. Maybe Nurallah wouldn’t actually connive with the Taliban. Still, if a former police officer like him was even mouthing such thoughts, then others were acting on them. Afghan government corruption was manufacturing Taliban.

What are you doing here?” “My dad called and--what the hell is that?” He pointed to the cleaver. I angled my chin. “I was in the middle of cutting my peanut butter and jelly sandwich.” “With a meat cleaver?” “It’s quick and makes a perfectly straight cut.” He grinned. “Yeah, right. You’ve obviously watched too many movies. Who’d you think I was? Freddy Krueger?” “What are you doing here?” I repeated, not in the mood for his sarcasm or teasing. Plus I was feeling a little silly holding my weapon of choice. “Like I said, my dad called. The ferry shut down before they could get back. I decided to check to make sure that you were okay.” “Why wouldn’t I be okay?” “The storms here can get pretty intense, and if you’ve never been through one”--he dropped his gaze back to the cleaver--“I just thought you might get freaked if you were all alone.” It was nice of him to worry about me but totally unnecessary. I sighed. “I’m fine, thanks. You can go back home now.” “You’re kidding, right? Did you not look out there?” “It’s snowing.” “It’s a blizzard. I’m not going back out.” “You’re not staying here.” He raised an eyebrow. “This is an inn.” “Not yet. We’re not officially open for business.” “Tough. It’s easy to get disoriented out there. Last year a guy froze to death three feet from his front porch.” “Call a taxi.” The other eyebrow shot up. “Is this any way to thank me for showing concern?” “You know, I think you probably came over here because you were afraid to be alone.” “I really did want to make sure you were okay.” “You could have called.” “It’s not the same.” I didn’t want to admit to him that a little part of me was glad not to be alone anymore. Because the wind was loud and now that it was right, it was scary. “Oh, all right.” Besides, if the ferry wasn’t running, the taxi probably wasn’t either. “Come on. I’ll split my sandwich with you.” “I make a mean grilled cheese sandwich, and I’m really in the mood for something warm.

1974 Bangkok   On my way from London to Kuala Lumpur that summer, I stopped in Bangkok for a few days, since I had never been to Krung Thep Maha Nakhon (Bangkok in Thai). I thought it an excellent idea to visit this vibrant city, known to some as the ‘Sin City of the East’ due to its liberal stance in sexual issues.               As soon as I’d stepped out of the airport to flag a taxi to the legendary Oriental Bangkok Hotel, I was confronted by hordes of haggling Thai men jostling for my business, bargaining with me in broken English to deliver me to my luxury lodging for the best price. But just then, a suave-looking foreigner in his thirties stepped in to dissipate their heated transactions. He wasted no time to disperse all the drivers except one. The gentleman had bargained in Thai for the best price on my behalf. He spoke in German-accented English, “I’m Max. The cab driver will take us to our hotel?”               “Oh, you are also staying at the Oriental?” I chirped.               “Hop into the cab so we can get out of this madding crowd,” he expressed vehemently, opening the car door to let me in.               As soon as we were comfortably situated at the back seat, he asked, “What brings you to Thonburi, Mr.…?” He trailed off.               “I’m Young. Thank you for your assistance! It’s my first time to Bangkok. I wasn’t expecting such a rowdy welcome. If it weren’t for you, I may have landed in a Thai hospital,” I joked. “Where’s Thonburi?”               He sniggered mischievously. “Thonburi, the city of treasures gracing the ocean, is Bangkok’s official name, although some refer to it more appropriately as Meụ̄xng k̄hxng khwām s̄uk̄h kām, the city of erotic pleasures,” he quipped.               Overhearing the words Meụ̄xng k̄hxng khwām s̄uk̄h kām, the cab driver commented, “You want boy, girl or boy-girl or girl-boy? I take you to happy place!”               Max burst out in laughter. He proceeded to have a conversation in Thai with the driver. I sat, silent, since I had no idea what was being said, until my acquaintance asked, “What brings you to Bangkok?”               “I’m on vacation. What brings you to Thonburi?” I queried.               “I’m here on business, and usually stay a while for leisure,” was his response. “Since we are staying in the same hotel, we’ll see more of each other. I’m happy to show you the city,” he added.               “That’ll be wonderful. I’ll take up your offer,” I said appreciatively, glad I’d met someone to show me around.               By the time our cab pulled up at the Oriental’s entrance, we had agreed to meet for dinner the following evening.

Life on the road was just boring. They would land at an airport and take a taxi to the hotel. There they would sit for interviews. A limo would take them to the venue for the sound check; the limo would take them back to the hotel. Then the limo again, the meet-and-greet in the dressing rooms before the show and then more faces to meet and greet afterward and perhaps another interview. Out to back fence to sign some autographs. Then the limo back to the hotel.

the South Brooklyn seaside neighborhood was now showing signs of finally succumbing to the real estate developers. As the taxi wound through funky little side streets, I spotted a billboard advertising the IKEA warehouse located just off the Gowanus Expressway. Wine bars and condos wouldn’t be far behind.

For example, just enjoy the show when a young girl is sitting naked in your bed and her mother calls her asking where she has been all night, and she starts making up a random story about sleeping over at a friend’s house because the last night bus — that she was supposed to go home with — never arrived, and she did not want to call and wake anyone up, then the batteries in her phone died all of a sudden, but right now she is sitting in a taxi on her way home, but there is so much traffic that it might take a long while until she is back home.

Hello nǐ hǎo knee how. (Think: How’s your knee, i.e., “How are you?”) Goodbye zàijiàn dzeye gee-en Thank you xiè xie syeh syeh (The second “xie” has no tone.) You’re welcome bú kè qi boo kuh chee (The “chee” has no tone.) Good morning zǎoshang hǎo dzow shahng how Please stand in line qǐng páiduì ching pie dway Too expensive taì guì le tie gway luh (Make it) cheaper piányi yìdiǎn pien yee ee dien (I; we) don’t want it búyào boo yow I want this one wǒ yào zhèige waw yow jay guh (Note: “guh” has no tone) How much (does it cost)? duóshǎo qian dwo shao chee-en Where is the bathroom? cèsuǒ zài nǎlǐ tsuh swo dz-eye nah lee Over there nàli nah lee (Note: “lee” has no tone) Please give me qǐng gěi wǒ ching gay waw Fine; OK; good; alright hǎo how Not OK; no good bùhǎo boo how I want to go ____ Wǒ yào qù waw yow chee-you (Show taxi driver the address in Chinese.) (Want) to go to ____ Wǒ yào dào qù ____ waw you dow ____ chee-you (e.g., when buying tickets at train or bus station) Police! jǐngchá! jing chah! (in case of theft or emergency) Help! Help! jiùmìng! jiùmìng! jee-oh ming! jee-oh ming! Faster! kuài yìdiǎn! kweye ee dien! Numbers one through ten: one yī ee two èr ar three sān sahn four sì szih five wǔ woo six liù leo seven qī chee eight bā bah nine jiǔ geo ten shí sure one of something yíge ee guh two of something liǎngge lee-ang guh three of something sānge sahn guh Etc.

guessed she’d been something in her day. And if he’d known they were going to show up at the club, he’d have told the cocky bastards to fuck off out of it and take a taxi. Not smart. Despite that, Bishop recognised the deal with the Giordanos was the best chance he was likely to get to make the south London mob eat some of the same shit they’d dished out to his family. Until every Glass was history and he was standing at the bar in LBC, drinking Luke’s champagne and getting ready to fuck his hookers, Calum wouldn’t relax. The crew from New Orleans had their own reasons for being in London. He had no interest in them; they could cut off the sister’s tits and leave her to bleed out for all he cared, then with Glass beaten and broken he’d step in and deliver the final blow. And when her celebrated brother was history anybody who objected to the new arrangement was dead. The Giordanos were convinced he was on a mission to settle his uncle’s unfinished business. Wrong! To hell with revenge! He wanted what was good for Calum Bishop. As simple as that. George Ritchie was another name high on Calum’s hit list. The Geordie was a legend in his own right: he’d had a good innings, but his time was up. Persuading him to jump ship and join forces would’ve been the cherry on the cake. Not happening; he was Luke’s man. Yet, coming face to face with the old fucker, it was impossible not to have a sneaking pang of regret. In The North Star on Finchley Road, despite being outnumbered, Ritchie hadn’t flinched. Glass

Your center can also be subtly benevolent or sympathetic: Two and a Half Men’s Charlie Harper is a perpetually drunk womanizer, but, with little hesitation, he opens his beach home to his newly divorced brother and nephew. On The Big Bang Theory, Leonard Hofstadter is a socially awkward scientist who has trouble communicating feelings, but he protects his roommate and best friend, the even more socially awkward and brilliant Sheldon Cooper. Some shows have no center at all. In 3rd Rock from the Sun, all the characters are eccentric and play off one another. In the beginning, the characters must be appealing and compelling. Networks want characters to be appealing all the time. But that’s ultimately terrible for storytelling, because there’s no journey. There’s no redemption if there’s no sin. There has to be some dimension. The challenge is in figuring out how to grow and nurture characters carefully so that the audience will continue to accept them.

The concept is never what attracts me; it’s the execution. There are lots of shows about bars, news and radio stations, cabdrivers, and shrinks. I want to see what the characters that are put into these situations do. I’m concerned about believability and the economy of the comedy, the shortest distance between the character and the laughter, and the best way to get there. When I direct an episode, I have a lot of notes. I am apt to tell writers, “Fifty percent of what I say is gold and fifty percent is garbage. It’s your job to figure out which is which.

My philosophy was “Get it done.” Get the basics in there and, after that, tweak it and make it better; think about how to generate nuances that would enhance the show. I knew that doing nuances right away was like building a house and putting the couches and the curtains in before laying the foundation. This was literally how my directing career began. I was doing well, but I still felt I was getting other people’s laughs, not my own.

She said yes with zero hesitation,” DiCenzo tweeted. On the show, Taylor decided to sing a song she’d never performed before, called “New Year’s Day.” “Suddenly, she sings the line, ‘Squeeze my hand three times in the back of the taxi,” DiCenzo tweeted. “I nearly gasped. Tears. I think everyone in the audience started sobbing. I could see Jimmy silhouetted at his desk dabbing his eyes with a tissue. We all lost it. It was a beautiful coincidence in a beautiful performance. ‘Hold on to your memories, they will hold on to you,’ Taylor sang.

Like in business, the emergence of new players necessarily changes the way the game must be played. Blockbuster—the sole superpower in the movie rental business—failed to appreciate that a small company like Netflix and an emerging technology like the internet required them to reexamine their entire business model. Big publishers doubled down on old models when Amazon showed up instead of asking how they could update and upgrade their models in the face of a new digital age. And instead of asking themselves, “What do we need to do to change with the times,” taxi companies chose to sue the ridesharing companies to protect their business models instead of learning how to adapt and provide a better taxi service. Sears got so big and so rich from sending out paper catalogues for so many decades that they were too slow to adapt to the rise of big-box stores like Walmart and ecommerce. And believing itself without Rival, the behemoth that was Myspace didn’t even see Facebook coming.

As the taxi moved, I started checking out all the new buildings and streets. It was clear that whereas some people had gotten better off, others were worse off or had simply stagnated. Infrastructure reveals so much about a place and its culture, politics, and people. The disparities between the poor and the rich neighborhoods…show that ‘time’ was not ticking at the same pace for everyone. Time was not moving favorably for everyone. Even time is like power in that it moves some people forward, some backward, and some to the sides and the margins. Time also buries some people under the ground.

Or we skip all that and just show him getting out a taxi in front of the Hotel Northwestern.

For all that little financial lesson in the Montreal hotel, Emily was still confused by British currency. She’d grown highly incensed not only with it but with me because she couldn’t understand it. It was the only thing I ever heard her admit to not understanding. It was in vain that I tried to show her the difference between a half crown and a two-shilling piece. She refused to admit they were anything but two versions of fifty cents, and persisted in being so stubbornly obtuse about it that I finally told her that if she just bring herself to read what was written on them, she’d know. This didn’t work out so well either because she’d keep taxi drivers waiting interminably while she’d scan the reading matter of each and every coin, turning it round and round, sometimes breathing on it and rubbing it clear. When I suggested that people might think her awfully queer, she said, not at all, they’d merely mistake her for a coin collector. I tried explaining to her that one florin meant two shillings but that only made her madder. The day we received a bill made out in guineas and I told her that there was no such thing as a guinea, it was a pound and one shilling, only the swanker shops charged you in guineas, and you paid in pound and shillings, but you called it guineas, although as I had said there really was no such thing, she slapped me.

They are loud and boisterous, skylarking in the way that so many men in their twenties do – only just making the train, with the plumped-up platform guard blowing his whistle in furious disapproval. After messing about with the automatic door – open, shut, open, shut – which they inevitably find hilarious beyond the facts, they settle into the seats nearest the luggage racks. But then, apparently spotting the two girls from Cornwall, they glance knowingly at each other and head further down the carriage to the seats directly behind them. I smile to myself. See, I’m no killjoy. I was young once. I watch the girls go all quiet and shy, one widening her eyes at her friend – and yes, one of the men is especially striking, like a model or a member of a boy band. And it all reminds me of that very particular feeling in your tummy. You know. So I am not at all surprised or in the least bit disapproving when the men stand up and the good-looking one then leans over the top of the dividing seats, wondering if he might fetch the girls something from the buffet, ‘. . . seeing as I’m going?’ Next there are name swaps and quite a bit of giggling, and the dance begins. Two coffees and four lagers later, the young men have joined the girls – all seated near enough for me to follow the full conversation. I know, I know. I really shouldn’t be listening, but we’ve been over this. I’m bored, remember. They’re loud. So then. The girls repeat what I have already gleaned from their earlier gossiping. This trip to London is their first solo visit to the capital – a gift from their parents to celebrate the end of GCSEs. They are booked into a budget hotel, have tickets for Les Misérables and have never been this excited. ‘You kidding me? You really never been to London on your own before?’ Karl, the boy-band lookalike, is amazed. ‘Can be a tricky place, you know, girls. London. You need to watch yourselves. Taxi not tube when you get out of the theatre. You hear me?’ I am liking Karl now. He is recommending shops and market stalls – also a club where he says they will be safe if they fancy some decent music and dancing after the show. He is writing down the name on a piece of paper for them. Knows the bouncer. ‘Mention my name, OK?’ And then Anna, the taller of the two friends from Cornwall, is wondering about the black bags and I am secretly delighted that she has asked, for I am curious also, smiling in anticipation of the teasing. Boys. So disorganised. What are you like, eh?

The recent enormous popularity of gin means there has been a parallel surge in delicious high-end tonics. Try Fentimans, Fever Tree and good old Schweppes Indian Tonic. One of those with a slice of lime looks just like a G&T and is delicious. • I used to say brunch isn’t brunch without a Bloody Mary. Now, unless it’s a special occasion, I go for a just-as-delicious and way-more-virtuous Virgin Mary. Just make sure they don’t scrimp on the Tabasco so that you get that kick. • Bitters are great for solving the issue of so many alcohol-free drinks being sickly sweet (I mean, what’s the point of not drinking if you’re going to feel like throwing up in the taxi home anyway?). A soda water with a dash of Angostura bitters hits the spot. • Kombucha is made with ‘live’ fermented tea, so it’s packed with nutrients and great for your gut. Search out craft kombucha brewers like Equinox, Love, Jarr, or Profusion, whose kombucha is available from Ocado. • If a bar has a cocktail list, it will almost certainly have an alcohol-free section. If not, just ask. Mixologists love showing off, so they’ll relish the challenge of creating something bespoke. • For widely available botanically brewed deliciousness, try Folkington’s, Belvoir, Luscombe and Peter Spanton. • A bitter lemon is a great option, assuming you don’t mind (or perhaps you quite enjoy) the slight vibe of Dot and Ethel in the Queen Vic. Personally, I love a bit of 1970s kitsch, and a bitter lemon is usually served on ice in a low-ball glass, so it is perfect for evenings when you don’t want to make a big deal of not drinking, because it looks like a ‘proper’ drink.

Shall we go get gelato to celebrate?” Stu asks. “Yeah! Gelato!” Andi says enthusiastically. “We’ve been eating gelato all over Italy, haven’t we, Stu? What’s the best place to get some in Venice?” “Near here, it is Gelato Fantasy,” Luca says. “I can take you.” “Don’t you need to get back to the airport?” Evan says, the first time he’s spoken since Luca and Kelly got out of the water taxi. “I mean, if you’ve got somewhere you need to be…” Luca turns to flash him the most dazzling of smiles, pushing back his black hair with his long pale fingers. “Ma no!” he says, so charmingly that I know he’s being totally fake. “Per niente! Now it is too late, my flight has gone. And I am very happy to show you all where to find some good gelato. Andiamo!” “Wow,” Andi sighs as Luca leads us into the piazza. “Luca’s hot. I mean, I love you, Stu, but that’s just how I pictured Italian men. So handsome and sophisticated.” “He’s a prince, too!” Paige says enthusiastically. “Oh my God, you’re kidding!” Andi exclaims. “Kelly, you got rescued by a prince! That’s crazy!” “I was so lucky he was at the airport,” Kelly says in heartfelt tones. “I don’t know what I’d’ve done without him.” “We’d have turned up!” I say, for some reason finding it almost intolerable to hear Luca praised to the skies. “Kendra would’ve got a taxi, and we’d have come and found you. You would’ve been okay.” “I’m just saying he was really nice,” Kelly says quietly to me.

I heard a story about a former Under Secretary of Defense who gave a speech at a large conference. He took his place on the stage and began talking, sharing his prepared remarks with the audience. He paused to take a sip of coffee from the Styrofoam cup he’d brought on stage with him. He took another sip, looked down at the cup and smiled. “You know,” he said, interrupting his own speech, “I spoke here last year. I presented at this same conference on this same stage. But last year, I was still an Under Secretary,” he said. “I flew here in business class and when I landed, there was someone waiting for me at the airport to take me to my hotel. Upon arriving at my hotel,” he continued, “there was someone else waiting for me. They had already checked me into the hotel, so they handed me my key and escorted me up to my room. The next morning, when I came down, again there was someone waiting for me in the lobby to drive me to this same venue that we are in today. I was taken through a back entrance, shown to the greenroom and handed a cup of coffee in a beautiful ceramic cup.” “But this year, as I stand here to speak to you, I am no longer the Under Secretary,” he continued. “I flew here coach class and when I arrived at the airport yesterday there was no one there to meet me. I took a taxi to the hotel, and when I got there, I checked myself in and went by myself to my room. This morning, I came down to the lobby and caught another taxi to come here. I came in the front door and found my way backstage. Once there, I asked one of the techs if there was any coffee. He pointed to a coffee machine on a table against the wall. So I walked over and poured myself a cup of coffee into this here Styrofoam cup,” he said as he raised the cup to show the audience. “It occurs to me,” he continued, “the ceramic cup they gave me last year . . . it was never meant for me at all. It was meant for the position I held. I deserve a Styrofoam cup. “This is the most important lesson I can impart to all of you,” he offered. “All the perks, all the benefits and advantages you may get for the rank or position you hold, they aren’t meant for you. They are meant for the role you fill. And when you leave your role, which eventually you will, they will give the ceramic cup to the person who replaces you. Because you only ever deserved a Styrofoam cup.

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