How Not to Upset a Bosnian Cab Driver - Adventures in Not Having a Clue Where You're Going

My trip to Sarajevo was a memorable one. As I crossed the Serbian border into Bosnia, I took in dramatic peaks, verdant valleys, and lakeside towns.

During one of the many pit stops, I asked the young man sitting across from me where he was from.

“Bosnia,” he told me.

“Can you understand people in Serbia? I asked. “How similar are the two languages?”

“Pretty similar,” he said.

Eventually, this opened up the floodgates for a conversation that would span nearly the rest of the journey.

Milan, a 24-year old law student from Bosnia, took the seat next to me as we spoke for hours. His English was impressive, impeded only by a stammer he was thankfully unconcerned about. It sounds strange to say, but he was perhaps the most earnest person I’d ever met.

We spoke about politics in his country and mine. He asked nuanced questions like the relationship between African-American men and the police, my stance on gun control, and my take on the upcoming presidential election. I felt at times as if I were running for office.

This guy knows his stuff, I thought.

I offered my thoughts, however flawed. I tried not to claim I knew more than I did and told him how impressed how I was with the scope of his interests.

The only problem was he went on and on.

I nodded politely before becoming gradually more nauseous from weaving around the steep mountainside. He was so consumed by his own thoughts it seemed at times he didn’t even need me to share his musings.

There were brief respites, like when the bus broke down. I joked with three travelers from Poland about our chances of making it Bosnia.

“Are you staying in Sarajevo?” one asked during the delay.

“I don’t know anymore,” I joked.

Eventually, we were on our way as Milan got off at a stop just outside the city. We shook hands and agreed to stay in touch.

Soon after, I arrived on the outskirts of Sarajevo. Why the bus stop was not in the heart of the city confounded me but I had bigger fish to fry.

My AirBnb host had been shaky with communication. He’d informed me to contact his partner, Imran who I never heard back from. After nearly half an hour of waiting to hear back, I asked for a refund and connected with the other AirBnb host I had considered.

“Hi Aida, hope you’re well. Very last minute, but just curious if you’ve arrived back in Sarajevo. Just got in and haven’t heard back from my host who I believe is on vacation. Just wanted to quickly see if your place is still available. Very last minute. Understand if you’re out. If it is available I can make my way…”

After a few minutes, she responded telling me the offer still stood.

I hailed a cab and followed her instructions, which read:

‘The address is Aleja Lipa. Take care this is Grbavica and not Hrasno. You need to tell that to the taxi driver.’

A few moments after our exchange, I received a confirmation phone call from her.

Or so I thought…

I made my way to a cab parked nearby. I was tired but mostly relieved I’d have a place to hang my hat for the night. The man driving the car was probably in his 50s. He was tall, bald, and looked to be fit for his age, certainly not someone I’d want to upset, which I later would.

As we inched closer to town with a loud Bosnian news broadcast blaring in the background, it was clear the driver was disoriented. He stopped the car to ask for directions, but we were both totally confused as to where exactly the apartment was.

Of course, I had a slightly better excuse.

Just as we seemed to be on our way, I received a phone call from my host.

“I’m just checking to see where you are,” I heard someone say.

It then dawned on me the voice I was speaking to wasn’t the host I’d been texting.

“What is your name again?” I asked. “And what is your address?”

“This is Aidan. I am on Ferhadija,” the voice replied.

I’d made a huge blunder.

The person who called had a very similar name as my previous host, and both addresses ended with the number 9. And because Imran had failed to return my messages, Aidan had taken over communication duties; something I wasn’t aware of.

“I’ll be right there,” I said.

I texted back Aida explaining the mix-up to which she graciously said wasn’t a problem.

My cab driver did not share the same sentiment.

I showed him the new address as he mumbled something in Bosnian, which you didn’t have to be a scholar to know wasn’t good.

All of that hassle in finding the first place was for nothing. I had caused him (and myself) several minutes of meaningless aggravation.

“I’m sorry,” I repeated profusely.

We arrived in one piece a few minutes later as I offered a very generous tip. Not surprisingly it seemed to settle everything.

Funny how money has that effect on people.

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Lessons from Watching the Evolution of a Supermom

For many of my generation, sugary cereal and morning cartoons were staples of childhood. Life didn’t get much better than bingeing on ambiguous provisions shaped like ice cream cones, or watching a bumbling detective solve crimes with high tech gadgets.

Those were the days.

And for a lot of parents, those animated shows provided a much-needed respite from the nonstop hustle of raising a little one or two. But for my mom, sitting with her son to watch a talking Great Dane solve mysteries was for more than amusement. It was a tool for assimilating.

She watched cartoons with my brother and I to improve her English.

My mom grew up one of six children in Korea. She was born two and half years into the Korean War; a conflict that has not technically ended.

As a little boy, being ogled as I ambled down side streets during summer visits to Seoul, it never occurred to me the country was not that far removed from the dictatorship of Park Chung-hee.

Today, Korea is celebrated for its innovation, dogged work ethic and of course KPOP, and those addictive TV dramas.

But the country with the 11th biggest economy in the world was once a far cry from such exports. It was a place with great potential but with a long way to go.

I often joke, “I was Korean before it was cool.”

Perhaps even more interesting than watching the transformation of an entire country, has been the evolution of one if its brightest stars — my mom.

In the spirit of Mother’s Day, it’s probably high time I tell her how much I’ve learned from her, and that even at their best, He-Man and G.I. Joe have nothing on her.

She is to me, the greatest of all superheroes.

But the country with the 11th biggest economy in the world was once a far cry from such exports. It was a place with great potential but with a long way to go.

I often joke, “I was Korean before it was cool.”

Perhaps even more interesting than watching the transformation of an entire country, has been the evolution of one if its brightest stars — my mom.

In the spirit of Mother’s Day, it’s probably high time I tell her how much I’ve learned from her, and that even at their best, He-Man and G.I. Joe have nothing on her.

She is to me, the greatest of all superheroes.

Lesson 1: Transitions are hard

The first time my mom met my father’s Italian American family in New York, she couldn’t figure out who, if anyone, was listening.

“Everyone was talking at the same time,” she told me.

But her crash course on America and its customs was just beginning. Just a year after I was born in Hong Kong, we moved to one of the most unique and misunderstood cities in America: Oakland, California.

The city once inhabited by the Huchiun tribe that would later give rise to the Black Panther Movement, would be her new home. Oakland would be quite a transition for anyone, let alone someone coming from one of the most homogeneous countries in the world.

But she learned quickly because she had to. My public school, nestled in the hills was a stone’s throw from our home. Carl B. Munck Elementary was a melting pot of kids who were African American, Mexican, El Salvadorian, American Indian, Cambodian, Hawaiian, Chinese, and Japanese to name a few.

After school, it wasn’t uncommon for half the class to pile into our car for soccer, or little league practice. She’d schlepp my friends and I to the ends of the earth so we could do something that has become tragically rare: be kids.

But the transition was not seamless. My father worked hard to provide for our family and his job often took him to far corners of the globe; sometimes for weeks at a time.

“You’re the man of the house,” my father used to say before a trip.

I took his words to heart, promising to protect my mother and brother at all costs. Watching my mom hold down the fort for a month at a time is a feat I now admire beyond explanation.

In addition to navigating bouts of loneliness in a land that was still strange, she also lost friends not keen on her marrying a non-Korean. Still, she marched through their inflexible thinking without looking back.

Her example has helped me handle my own transitions in life, though far less gracefully. What I’ve learned by watching my mom is you can’t half commit to anything worth doing. Your heart somehow knows when its being duped. Either you’re all in or your dedication wanes.

She also taught me sacrifice and risk are unavoidable parts of wanting a little more out of life. Deciding what you want is not enough. Theory must ultimately be supported by experimentation, which requires action.

2. Commonalities are not a Precondition for Loving Someone

I’ve lived away from California for nearly half my life. But no matter where I’d call from, my mom would pick up the phone and invariably say, “I was just thinking about you.”

What’s interesting is, as much as we missed one another, whenever I’d return home I often struggled to find things to say. Once my mom had played the “greatest hits” and asked how my closest friends were, conversation was often stilted, labored even.

For many years, I harbored guilt for not having the seemingly effortless relationship with my mom my friends seem to have with theirs. At times, I resented the cultural barrier between us wondering what it might have been like if she’d been raised in the States or I in Korea.

I thought about what I could do differently, often questioning how good a son I was.

But as I got older, it dawned on me the people who share our blood are often not the ones we who share our interests.

And that’s okay.

What does matter is a desire to support those ambitions, however foreign.

What I appreciate most about my mom (and dad) was their refusal to retreat within themselves, despite not always understanding my path, or even me. When I decided to pursue acting full-time, they were understandably leery. But it was ultimately my mom who encouraged me to go to grad school for drama; her logic being I could do anything I wanted as long as I worked my tail off.

She also gave me the space to become a three-dimensional human being and gradually cultivate my own take on the world. She’d tell me when I messed up and offer insight when I felt lost, but my mom never preached or made me subscribe to a philosophy that wasn’t my own.

As a result, she gave me the greatest gift a parent can to a child: the ability to think independently.

3. Be of Service

Like many parents, my mom carpooled, volunteered, and helped with fundraisers. She was, and is, a very active member in her Korean church. And when I was a kid, she somehow found the time to take night classes and get a masters degree.

Trying to keep up with her is still dizzying.

But it was my mother’s insistence to use whatever resources she had to impact the lives of others. She started a small charity in our family’s name and supported a student from a broken home back in Korea.

It was her example that inspired me to lend a hand in every community I’ve called home. Largely because of her, I’ve volunteered in shelters, schools and community centers in New York, Los Angeles, and the San Francisco Bay Area.

Perhaps most importantly, those experiences led me to do the same in places like Nepal, Haiti, and South Africa where the stakes felt even higher. I’m indebted to my mother for teaching me the best way to put your problems into perspective is to focus on the ones of others.

Through her evolution, I’ve chartered a path for my own; an imperfect exploration of self, the world, and the role I’m fortunate enough to play in it.

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Musings in a Jordanian Cafe

I can’t sleep. I wonder how many times my mattress has played host to the insomniac tourist; too many to count probably. I just hope this bed has learned not to take it personally. 

“It’s not you it’s me,” I feel tempted to say.

This evening, I had a cup of tea at a place called the, Art Gallery Cafe on the corner of Al-Rainbow and Uthman Bin Affan Street. It was a cozy little spot that reminded me of a sidewalk café in Europe.

I overheard four-twenty something’s philosophize about travel, dating, and work. The most notable sound bites was one man’s claim that whales didn’t have faces. 

I'm still pondering that one.

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Old Habits Die Hard

Last night I stayed in a beautiful brownstone in the heart of Harlem. The building had clearly received a great deal of love over the years, which was perhaps the sole purpose of renting it out through AirBnb. 

For as long as I’ve lived in New York I have only been in a handful of them. I highly recommend the experience. 

My friend Nick who booked the space for our friend's wedding told me the apartment was 120 years old. Instantly, I began to romanticize about all the things the building had both seen and heard.

I don’t care who you are, or where you’re from, if you live for that long you’re going to have a story or two. 

I’m amazed how quickly one resumes the “New York State of Mind,” when back in the city. It took months, but when I left Los Angeles I was finally at a place where my gait had slowed and my patience no longer waned.

All of that training has been eradicated in my 5 days back. 

So goes...

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How a Friend Reminded Me to Think Flexibly

A few weeks ago I was back in New York City. I was staying with a friend who lived a stone's throw from a coffee shop I loved going to. 

On the way, I thought about a friend of mine who I hadn't seen in a few years. We met taking an acting class several years ago and ended up starting a little scene study group. She crossed my mind because one of the last times I saw her was over a couple of green teas at the very spot I was en route to.

As I opened the door I heard someone call my name. 

It was her.

She got up and greeted me with a warm hug before planting herself back in her chair. She had company. A woman who looked to be a few years younger sat patiently as the two of us caught up. It turned out to be her tutor.

"I'll be right over here when you're finished," I told her.

For the next half hour she buried herself in a book that had nothing to do with character, plot, or voice. In the time that had passed since we last saw one another she'd changed careers.

After her lesson, she pulled up a chair and brought me up to speed.

"I'm back in school," she told me. 

 She was going into medicine. 

"That's great," I told her.

What I appreciated most was her candor about what led her to make the leap from actor to public health.

"I wasn't happy anymore," she told me. "Besides, I accomplished everything I wanted to as an actor. I got paid to do what I loved."

It was her flexibility in thought that had led her to this new opportunity. I thought back on how I'd clung so fiercely to a dream no longer aligned with my highest values out of fear. It took me years to appreciate what we want at 20 might not be what we want at 30.

She reminded me of the importance of being pliant in our approach to life and having the openness to redefine personal meaning. If we're honest with ourselves, can stumble on extraordinary ways to contribute our talents.  

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Adventures in Wadi Rum

It’s interesting what you notice when there isn’t much going on in the town you’re in. Aqaba, Jordan reminds me of the John Steinbeck short story, The Pearl when he describes the little Mexican village the book’s protagonist, Kino has lived in his entire life:

“It is wonderful the way a little town keeps track of itself and of all its units. If every single man and woman, child and baby, acts and conducts itself in a known pattern and breaks no walls and differs with no one and experiments in no way and is not sick and does not endanger the ease and peace of mind or steady unbroken flow of the town, then that unit can disappear and never be heard of.”

I discovered only one of the elevators at the hotel I’m staying at works; a realization that took longer than it should have to stumble upon.

I now know which convenient stores sell coconut water and are air-conditioned. 

I could tell you where to rent a tuxedo.

I’d happily point you in the direction of the nearest mosque, archaeological site, or best spot to wade in the Red Sea. 

I’d want you to know the restaurant Fish Fish just down the street lists carrot juice on its menu but never actually has any. 

I would tell you not to be alarmed by the countless military posts where young Jordanian soldiers stand guard.

My point is, you notice more. A lot more. Like the difference between solitude and loneliness; a distinction you might not make unless given the time to actually consider it.

And after yesterday, I might tell you not to bother with Wadi Rum; a desert land of camels, peaks, and caves.

I was going stir crazy in my quarter mile radius of closed shops and endless prayer calls. For better or worse, I’m not the type to lie idly on a beach for hours. I get antsy, guilty even. My coding requires movement, creation — a path to be chartered. 

So after breakfast I headed down to the lobby.I wanted to speak with the man who handled tours in Aqaba. I knocked on his door as he turned slowly from his computer and waved me in. His office was well lit but lacked any semblance of ventilation. 

The entire room reeked of sweat and immobility.

“I was thinking of going to Wadi Rum today,” I beamed. “I was going to hire a cab to take me there this afternoon. What do you think would be a fair asking price?” 

He stared at me blankly. My motivation suddenly became to try and make him smile.

“What do you know about Wadi Rum?” he asked skeptically. 

“Well, I know it’s basically caves and mountains.” 

He leaned in slowly looking me square in the eyes before making certain not to mince words.

“First of all, it is not just caves and mountains. It is much more. There are Bedouins, camels, and lots of other things you can see and do.” 

I debated for a moment if I’d offended him with my Wadi Rum cliff notes but he seemed more interested in enlightenment than bullying.

Our encounter was brief but memorable. In the end we both agreed seeing Wadi Rum would be a good idea and so I set out to find a cab.

Drivers in Aqaba are as easy to find as the sun. Instantly a green Kia appeared out of nowhere. I went up to the passenger side window and asked if he spoke English. 

“A little,” he said. 

“How much to take me to Wadi Rum?” I asked. 

He seemed puzzled by the inquiry, which I didn’t think was a particularly strong start. 

“Just a second,” he said. “Please, sit down,” he pleaded. 

As he conferred with what I gathered was his boss, another driver tried shamelessly to steer me away. The gentlemen was closing in on 70 and resembled some of my distant relatives on my father’s side. 

“Hello,” he said. “Where are you going?” 

Before the conversation went any further, my friend in the Kia said, “Okay! 40 dinar,” which seemed like a screaming deal. The concierge in my hotel had suggested I pay 55 dinars for the one-hour journey. 

“Okay,” I said. And got in.

“What’s your name?” he asked. 

“Nick,” I said. 

“My name is Mohammed,” he shouted back. 

He tried earnestly to make conversation but realized he’d exhausted all he knew. He hopped on the phone as I heard him say the words, “Wadi Rum,’ several times. Instead of leaving the city we headed to a neighborhood I’d coincidentally walked through the day before. 

Something was up. I thought.

A few minutes later we picked up a heavyset man in his early thirties. He smiled and said hello before asking me if I was Spanish. He then claimed his seat on the front passenger side. 

“Wadi Rum?” he confirmed. 

“Yes,” I said.

We took another quick turn where waiting for us was another man. He was dressed in a traditional Muslim garment and looked to be in his late 50s. 

“You want to go to Wadi Rum?” he asked as well. 

“Yes,” I said. “Is that a problem?” 

I was growing steadily more agitated by what seemed like a reasonable request. Perhaps it was the car’s stench or the heat that threatened my poise, but I was confounded by this bizarre cab ritual I’d suddenly become part of.

“We switch drivers. He speaks English. 50 dinar. Okay?” 

Now the price and the stakes had been raised but I wanted to rattle neither. 

“Okay,” I said.

Mohammed left as my new stout friend and I drove off together. He offered to let me sit up front, but I’d grown as content as possible right where I was. 

My new driver was a little rough around the edges but equally earnest in his attempt to make conversation. His English turned out to be equally limited, which made me wander what all the fuss was about. We sat without speaking for much of the ride as he blasted loud Arabic music. I assumed it was an attempt pass the time, the awkwardness, or perhaps both. 

It sounds strange to say but I already missed Mohammed.

The drive itself was uneventful. We arrived in Wadi Rum in about 35 minutes, which immediately made me suspicious. The driver pointed animatedly to the peaks on either side of us convincing me we were in fact where I’d asked to be. 

There were camels and signs that could verify his claim in a court of law I suppose. Still, I was underwhelmed and would bet the house I wasn’t where they shot the photos for the brochure.

The hell with it, I thought. 

I’d been duped in China, Turkey, and though this was an honorable mention, why not tally Jordan up as well?

He begged to take a photo of me with the mountains in the background as I finally obliged. I asked him to wait as I took a long stroll towards the highest peak in the vicinity. I walked and walked until it was eerily quite. I was grateful for the solitude.

What am I doing here? I thought. My life is so weird.

I walked back to the car to find my new friend swatting a herd of flies that had completely taken over the car. As we swerved dangerously across a narrow and desolate highway, I watched as he screamed into his phone and swatted flies. 

This would be one hell of a way to go, I remember thinking.

When we got back to my hotel I handed him 50 dinar before he attempted to shake me down for an extra 5.

“For Mohammed,” he said.

“No,” I told him. “First it was 40, then 50, now 55? No way,” I shouted. 

I took strange pride in my little performance. I’d stuck up for myself, which was a disturbingly rare event. 

I decided to make my to the beach. I stripped down to my boxers and headed into the Red Sea. 

As I sat staring off towards Israel, I was approached by three teenagers.

“Can you beat box?” one asked.

Perhaps the only thing stranger than the inquiry was the fact that I actually could. 

I offered a rendition of a Godfather tune I’d practiced for years in the shower. He liked it so much he recorded it on his phone before rapping in Arabic. A small group gathered as I beat-boxed while he performed. 

Another gentlemen made his way over. He seemed equally entertained as he was confounded by what all the commotion was about. 

He asked where I was staying and I told him nearby. I asked him the same question as he pointed to the towel where he’d just come from. Part of me envied that abandonment of heart before I took solace in my age and knowing I could take a hot shower.

Eventually, I made my way back after a long but eventful day. One of which I suppose I orchestrated in some perverse way. Now, my earphones were blasting with the sounds of Drake as I strolled past a mosque.

I turned the corner and stopped by that convenient store with coconut water. I handed over the half dinar before the clerk asked me if I was French. 

“No,” I said amused at how sunglasses and slicked back hair had made me Spanish a few short hours before, while the same Ray Bans and disheveled hair courtesy of the Red Sea knighted me French. 

I set out for home and cracked open my drink taking a deep and unapologetic sip. And all was good again.

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