Between doing the numbers for Hartford HealthCare, and prepping the inventory reports for the Atlantic Health System—and blogging to excess in the middle of it all—I left the office late, got on a late train home, and once again got my ass stranded at Princeton Junction Rail Station. No sooner did I get there, but who should show up as if waiting for me but my favorite Arab taxi driver? Meaning the same guy who gave me the free ride last time.

He’s Egyptian, it turns out, not Lebanese or Libyan. From Alexandria—French-educated with a Palestinian grandfather. We started by talking about humidity, then moved to a conversation about Herodotus, then to one about Greece, and then shame (or the lack of it), finishing the ride with talk of Palestine. Once again, he waived his fee, telling me—in Arabic this time—that he was the one in debt to me for my activism, not the other way around. I didn’t think I was in activism for the pay, but now I’m starting to wonder.

Holy Herodotus, what am I going to do with this guy? I can’t just let him keep doing this, but I don’t know how to stop him. Ironic that I work in “revenue management,” and yet I’m at a loss.