At 4.30 am one dark Monday morning, the taxi I’d ordered to take me to the airport pulled up in front of my apartment building. I opened the back door, flopped into the seat and we pulled away from the curb and into the pre-dawn quiet of Sydney’s streets.

Immediately, the cab driver smiled at me, introduced himself as Abraham, and struck up a conversation.

He was chatty.

“Marvellous.”  I thought.

All I wanted, at that unholy hour, was to be home in my warm bed, not chatting, and certainly not hurtling towards the airport with a talkative taxi driver. But I was raised to be polite, and so Abraham and I talked for the entire 25 minutes of that drive.

When we arrived at Sydney Airport, I took out my credit card to pay the fare. Without taking it, Abraham asked:

“When are you coming back?”

“Tonight,” I said.

“I’ll pick you up,” he replied, “so you don’t need to wait in line for a taxi. And you can pay me then.”

As I attempted to process this profoundly surprising offer of service, Abraham continued.

“Do you like Lebanese food?” Without waiting for my reply, he said, “I will have dinner waiting for you.”

At this point, I wasn’t sure whether he was joking or not. But, I went with it.

“Ok.” I said. “See you tonight.”

And Abraham sped off into the early morning Sydney traffic.