When we Anglos think of the Holy City, we envision these drivers as part of the character, the spirit, the fabric of the place
Iwas traveling from Beit Shemesh to Gedera to visit my grandmother at the geriatric rehabilitation hospital. My driver was young and energetic, a secular twenty-something named Hagay. He was beaming when he picked me up. He had just brought his brand-new taxi – his baby – back from the carwash.
“What do you think about this?” he asked me. “A dream, no?”
To us spoiled Americans, it was a regular taxi, but to him it was his pride and joy.
“Most people hate their jobs, but I love mine,” he continued. “There’s nothing like driving through Eretz Yisrael, feeling the wind blow against your arm and watching the beauty of the land surrounding you.”
Create a free account to keep reading.
